


To Tame a Lion, to Tame a Wolf

by madandimpossible



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, House Lannister, Lets see if the author can keep all her stories straight lol, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sansa Stark-centric, Sansa is like in her early 20s, Slow Burn, There's maybe like a 10 year difference between the main pairing of Tyrion and Sansa, This author does NOT use sexual assault for female character development ! Cuz it's gross!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madandimpossible/pseuds/madandimpossible
Summary: "Fly!" Her mind told her, "Fly and be free!" Sansa Stark made a different choice on the night the Blackwater burned. And it was her choice that would shape the rest of the Realm - whether she knew it or not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back with another ridiculous fic, this time with Sansa and Tyrion as the main characters! I admit, HBO's season was bad (I didn’t even watch the finale lol) – but Sophie and Peter’s chemistry was so fantastic that I felt like writing SOMETHING. Also – since I’m thinking of Peter and Sophie, Tyrion just has regular eyes (lol) sorry not sorry. Also, it will mainly be a Sansa/Tyrion fic, but other pairings will pop up. They just won't have a main focus. 
> 
> It’s been a long time since I’ve read the books or seen the earlier seasons, so please forgive me for any mistakes with timing and the rather liberal use of moving plot points around – hehe. JUST HAVE FUN WITH IT, OKAAYYY?

_This story begins…_  
_with a maiden, with hair like summer gold_  
_and a monster, scorned and left to die_

When the news had arrived, that Stannis was marching on King’s Landing, Sansa clutched her hands together so tightly that her nails threatened to break the skin. Cersei had allowed her to certain activities such a sewing and walking the gardens. She couldn’t stray far without a Kingsguard nearby (or _someone_ with a sword) and Cersei had phrased it sweetly, _“I’m only thinking of your protection…you are like a daughter to me.”_ But Sansa knew she was a prisoner all the same. She picked up her sewing and listened, intently, to the chatter of the women around her.

She had gotten quite _good_ at listening.

“I hear he’s got twenty-thousand men at his back.” Bryna said, her chestnut locks framing her round pretty face. “They say he travels with a witch from Essos!”

“It doesn’t matter _how_ many men he’s got.” Roslyn cut in, straightening her back and looking haughty, “We all know King Joffrey will be victorious.”

Sansa slid her needle through the embroidery, imagining and wishing, that it was her brother Robb storming the Red Keep. Perhaps Robb would travel south, he could join forces with Stannis – the Baratheon’s and Starks had joined forces when fighting the Mad King. Robert couldn’t have taken the throne without the help of her father. Yes, she could see it now. Her brother riding into the Keep with a glorious smile on his face and he’d lift her in his arms as he embraced her and brought her home – to Winterfell.

“The _Imp_?”

Sansa returned to the conversation, her sharp blue eyes catching the expressions around the room – some horrified, others disgusted, and at least two were…curious. Sansa wanted to pinch herself for missing the train of conversation. What about the Imp had gotten such a reaction?

One of the ladies lowered her voice, her face gone red, “It’s just what I’ve heard!”

“How have you heard it!?”

“Oh.” Roslyn snickered, “Is it that kitchen-boy you’ve been talking to? We all know how scullery maids like to talk.”

Sansa could hardly see the difference between the maids in the kitchen and the maidens around her…it seemed that everyone in King’s Landing liked to talk. It was just a question as to _who_ was telling the truth. She had once thought Joffrey to be lovely, a true Prince, like in her stories. Now when she saw him speak courtesies and smile, she could only see her father’s face on the battlements. She stabbed the needle back into her work and wished – again – for the nearly hundredth time that day that it was her brother marching on King’s Landing.

“Lady Sansa.” The voice of one of the Kingsguard cut through the chatter, “Your presence is required.”

Sansa set down her embroidery and smiled prettily. Her armor was strong even if it was made of silk.

II.

“The Tyrells?!” Cersei recoiled at the mere idea of it. “They declared for Renly.”

“And now Renly’s dead.” Tyrion said flatly while pouring himself and his sister a glass of deep red Arbor wine. “Stannis marches from the Stormlands with an army at his back. Those who haven’t joined him, they’ve run to the hills. Think of it this way - the Tyrells are a strong force – good resources, fertile land, and wealthy. Have you forgotten the Siege of Storm’s End? The Tyrells are unlikely to declare for Stannis after they dined outside his halls while he ate horses and rats. There’s now a player in the Game that we can take advantage of.”

He passed the chalice to Cersei, watching her green eyes narrow with contempt. She may not like his idea. But that didn’t matter. She didn’t have to like it.

“Father is still in the Riverlands and he may not get our message in time. We keep the Stark girl, after all, the Red Keep is safer than anywhere else...” Tyrion explained, climbing into a chair and taking a healthy gulp of wine. “We promise the Tyrells that Joffrey will wed Margaery when the war is over and his crown secure, earning their loyalty and support in the years to come.”

Cersei said nothing, but Tyrion could see her plotting – trying to figure out what he was doing. And it was simple, really. He was doing what was best for his family. As he had _always_ done.

“Consider it this way, dear sister, would you rather have your son married to the traitor Stark girl or Margaery Tyrell.”

“Margaery was married to Renly – a traitor.” Cersei said pointedly.

Tyrion tried another angle, “With Sansa Stark freed of her obligation, we could trade her for Jamie’s safe return.”

 _That_ got Cersei’s attention.

She looked down into her wine glass and then scoffed, “Father would never allow it.”

“Father isn’t here.” Tyrion said, “I am not saying we return the Stark girl and let the North remain independent. But I _am_ saying that we are facing two forces – Stannis and Robb Stark – and we cannot expect to keep fighting this way and win. We need allies. Dorne will not help us and the Vale is silent and immovable.”

A thick silence fell over the room. Tyrion began to shuffle through his letters left on his desk.

“What will we tell Joffrey? He’s…fond…of Sansa.”

Tyrion slid a knife under the wax seal of a letter, his eyes narrowing at his sisters’ words, “I would not call it _fondness_. Unless you mean it the same way that Robert was _fond_ of you?”

Cersei bristled but said nothing.

“We will tell him the truth. The betrothal to Sansa Stark is no longer in the best interest of the crown and the Realm…and he will be wed to the Tyrell girl.”

“Very well. You best hope that this plan of yours - this cunning plan - will work. Otherwise, Father might finally toss you from the cliffside.” Cersei stood, her gold and red skirts billowing behind her as she strode with her head held high from the room.

III.

DUNN. DUNN. DUNN-DUNN. The war drums carried on across the muddy riverbanks as men screamed and died. To say it was chaos would be an understatement. It was Hell. Tyrion had summoned Hell to the Blackwater.

**_“To the walls!”_ **

**_“Arrows!”_ **

The sky was thick with smoke as the eerie green flames licked across the water and Tyrion had but a fleeting moment to see the work he had done before he was forced to lift his shield and block a downward strike of an iron mace.

It had only been a fortnight ago when they had dissolved the betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey. The new queen had arrived the week prior and the court was already smitten with her. Everyone had all but forgotten Sansa Stark.

Tyrion wondered what her fate would be if Stannis took the castle. Would Stannis spare her? Even if her brother still proclaimed himself King in the North?

His own fate – he knew – would be a painful, slow death by fire. Poetic, then, he supposed that he was burning Stannis’ ships. The King with his Fire God. Where was his God now?

**_“Retreat!”_ **

Tyrion could not keep track of where he was or who was who. The green flames roared up into the sky, flickering and sprawling, carrying the cries of the dying to the clouds. He sought a familiar face and found none. The horses reared their hooves and screamed in terror.

The drums continued their war-song. He could see a banner flapping in the wind but could not see it’s sigil. Where were the Tyrell reinforcements? Was that all the men? Were they really going to _lose_?!

Tyrion lifted his gaze and confusion gripped him as Ser Mandon Moore lifted his sword above his head.

IV.

Sansa looked out her window, watching as the smoke filled the sky, and the cries of the battle below shook her core. She had felt fear a hundred times – it seemed – there was fear when they took Lady, fear and shame when Joffrey stripped her naked in the Throne Room, fear when the hungry mob had chased her. Yet, this was different.

This fear clogged her throat.

It froze her body.

She could only watch in horror as the ships burned and cries echoed across the court. Her room glowed with green light. Her guards had abandoned her. No one followed her when she went back to her chambers. For the first time since arriving in King’s Landing…she was alone.

The thought struck her like cold river-water thrown in her face. She could flee.

 _And go where?!_ She countered the impulsive thought. _Assume I do escape the city, unharmed, the roads aren’t safe. I could run into the Lannister Army…or Stannis…or anyone else._ Still, despite her thoughts, her body was moving on its own. She tossed clothes from her trunk and found her traveling cloak. _It doesn’t matter! Anywhere is better than here. If I stay, Joffrey will continue to torture me. If Stannis takes the city, then he may just have me killed with the rest of the Lannisters!_

Her nervous fingers shook as she braided her hair and pulled the hood over her head. She grabbed an apple, untouched from dinner, and shoved it into her pocket. As a passing thought, she grabbed the knife, too. She’d pray to the Mother that she’d never have to use it.

She looked out the window one last time.

She could stay, a bird in a cage, or she could fly.

V.

Podrick lifted Tyrion from the mud with his heart hammering his chest.

Tyrion did not respond.

There was only blood and dirt. The green light casting long shadows upon his face. Podrick grunted and lifted him, seeking an opening in the chaos to flee. He wasn’t going to return Tyrion to the lion’s den. Whether Ser Moore was working for someone else or in his own interests – Podrick didn’t care. He saw what happened with his own two eyes. Now, Moore was dead, and Tyrion was…well…hopefully not dead. Stannis’ men continued to push their attack – relentless and stubborn – and Podrick wasn’t going to wait and see who would win.

 _Just hold on, m’lord._ He thought, holding Tyrion to his chest like one might hold a child. _I will get you to safety._

VI.

Sansa clutched the wall as she hurried down the narrow staircase. She felt numb, but a thrill was coursing through her stomach. No one stopped her. No one even looked at her. She could hear people shouting orders – “Protect the Queen! Protect the King!” and “This way! To the Holdfast!” She ran past the Iron Throne and thought – for a second – that she had seen someone sitting upon it.

_It is only your imagination. Keep moving._

A crowd of servants bustled past her and she ducked her head, breaking away into another corridor the moment she was able to. Cersei had allowed her to roam the castle if she had an escort. She knew these halls. While the other ladies were busy chattering, she was busy listening and watching. A right turn here, two lefts and about twenty paces this way - Sansa gasped as she reached one of the gates.

Freedom – could it truly be so close? There was no one around. All the guardsmen had gone to focus their attention on the assault. No one thought twice about the servant’s quarters or the stable yard. If she remembered right…there was another door, just past this way, that she’d seen stable boys go in and out of.

She pushed on the wooden door with her shoulder and as her face met the warm night air, she could hear men fighting, swords clashing, and the horses neighing. Her resolve trembled. Once she left this threshold, there was no turning back. She would not be able to re-enter the Keep. She could die on the Kingsroad…or worse.

Sansa bit her lip and thought of Joffrey’s promise. A King could do whatever he liked. She thought of her father’s head rolling down the steps. She thought of Cersei’s cruel smile. Her brother was still in the Riverlands…she could find her way to him. She only would need to find the Trident and follow it. She clutched the door frame, took a breath, and ran forward into the night.

VII.

Podrick tied the second horse to his own – and if you asked him how he lucked out to wrangle two horses and flee – he could not say. One of the Seven were watching over him. Tyrion was unmoving, but he could see the shallow movement of his chest. Still breathing, at least.

He circled around the Keep, as the sounds of battle grew dim, and kept his head low and the horses to a slow trot – even though it was agonizing. He wanted to rush at breakneck speed, to safety, to find Lord Tyrion some help, but he couldn’t risk being seen or one of the horses’ throwing a shoe in the dark. Then where would he be?

He followed the road with only the few stars in the sky to guide him and hoped that Lord Tyrion would survive the night.

VIII.

Sansa knew the risk was high. But she could not see any other choice. Once she fled from the Keep, she tried to hide herself in the forest, but it tore her dress and after getting caught in more than one thorn bush…she backtracked and found the road. Her knee stung in pain from a particularly bad fall.

She kept to the edge of the road and told herself that if she heard or saw anyone coming – she’d run back to the woods and hide.

Yet, no one had come. No guards had come looking for her. She had feared it with every step. That she would hear the loud thumping of hooves and be dragged back to Joffrey. No soldiers marched past. No highwaymen tried to kidnap her.

The night was dark, and she was still alone.

Or at least – she _was_.

There was a light coming from a house, no more than a shack really, with a wooden fence around it and a small stable off to the side. A farmer’s hut, maybe? Perhaps she could find shelter there. If anyone was home…would they be loyal to Joffrey? Or Stannis? Or someone else? Would it even matter? If she was courteous and kind, they would respond in turn.

Her options were to keep walking along the road and hope that by daylight she could find the Trident or take her chances with the farmer’s hut. Her knee shot with pain as she put her weight onto it. Sansa winced.

Farmer’s hut, then.

As she approached, she could smell _something_ cooking and her stomach rumbled. Sansa looked down at her sorry state; her dress torn, her knee bloodied and dirtied from her fall, and her braid a messy tangle hanging loose around her shoulder. She sniffed. Well, appearances aside – she was still a lady. She would be gracious and warm and if the people inside turned her away then she would just…find another way.

She knocked upon the door.

“Who’re is it?!”

Sansa swallowed, “Uh – I need some help.”

The door swung open and revealed an older woman, her face wrinkled and splotchy, “Aye? I’m taking in all sorts today.” Her body was hunched, and she peered at Sansa with grey eyes. Sansa thought she looked a little like a toad.

Sansa bowed her head, “I’m sorry to disturb you, especially in this late hour…I’m lost, and I cannot seem to figure out how to get home.”

“Hmph.” The old woman moved aside, “Come in, before ye let the fire out. You can’t keep walking in the dark. There’re not enough stars out. I told that boy the same thing.”

Sansa let out a breath of relief and ducked her head to enter through the small doorway. A brief panic hit her as she heard the woman’s words- “Um…what boy?”

She thought of Joffrey finding this place, laying a trap for her – could this woman be a Lannister? Or just paid off by them? Joffrey had known she’d tried to escape and set this all up! She clenched her trembling hands together and wondered if she could run back to the forest and just hide until dawn. Did Joffrey have men hiding outside? Could she run before the woman noticed?

The old woman pushed aside a thin linen that separated the room and revealed a dark-haired boy sitting beside a cot on the floor. Sansa’s jaw dropped.

“You’re..—”

“He don’t talk much, so I wouldn’t bother.” The old woman cut in as she crouched to the floor. “He just turned up, just like you, all trembling…covered in mud…. carrying this poor fool.”

The shock faded and Sansa gathered the courage to move away from the door and look beyond the woman’s hunched shoulders. Her knees buckled at the sight and she caught herself with the edge of a small wooden table. Her hand covered her mouth and tears sprang, unbidden, to her eyes.

The person lying in the cot could be no other than Tyrion Lannister. His squire sat beside him with a worried expression his face. His face had been bandaged, but Sansa could see the thick pool of dark red blood trying to seep through the linen. His eyes were closed and his skin paler than Sansa recalled it ever being.

She felt sorry for him. Even though she had only seen him in passing in the Keep, he had been kind to her, and showed kindness to his niece and nephews. She had even heard that he scolded Joffrey for his behavior. _A small lion is still a lion._ Her mind reminded her. But, in that moment, Sansa could only see an injured man…barely holding onto life.

The old woman crushed a paste with her mortar and pestle, sitting crossed legged beside the cot as she spoke, “I ain’t no maester, but I’ve delivered a few babes in my time and set a few broken bones.” Her grey eyes looked at the boy and the redhaired girl, “It may take a few days ‘afore he’s well. I don’t have Milk of the Poppy, but I’ve got somethin’ close.”

“W-wh-what happened?” Sansa found herself asking as her body sunk into a stool, the pain in her knee forgotten.

“S-s-er Mo-o-re.” Podrick spoke up, his voice soft. Sansa furrowed her brow. Ser Moore had left her to be torn apart by the hungry mob, and they would’ve killed her (or worse) if The Hound hadn’t saved her. She felt no sympathy for the Knight. After all, most of the Knights that Joffrey surrounded himself with weren’t _true_ Knights anyway.

“Have some food, children.” The old woman said, pointing to the fireplace, “If he lives through this night, then I’d say the worst is over.”

Sansa didn’t forget her courtesies. “Thank you, m’lady.”

The old woman snorted, “Lady? Eh. Ye can just call me Ol’ Agatha.” She looked at Sansa, “An’ I might have something better for you ta’ wear. ‘M sure me daughter left something behind.” Agatha nodded to herself as she took the reddish-colored paste and dabbed it upon Tyrion’s bandages.

Sansa tore her eyes away from the injured dwarf and into the flames of the fireplace. It was only a few hours ago that she saw green colored flames dancing upon the water. She was in the Keep, listening to Cersei’s japes and sneers and the soft whimpering of the other ladies.

Before that, she was smiling with relief as Tyrion informed her that her betrothal to Joffrey had been dissolved.

Before that, she had been a girl with songs in her head. She was going to marry a _prince_.

Now, look at her. Dress torn, no food, no coin, and in a tiny hut with an old woman, a dying Lannister and his squire. A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but it escaped through. The laughter shook her, made her chest ache and her breath stop short and she tasted salt on her lips.

IX.

Tyrion saw the Blackwater burning. He saw his sister’s eyes in the flames.

He turned, his body heavy as lead weight, and Ser Moore lifted his sword. His scream was swallowed in his throat.

Silver coins dropped to the floor. One by one. The metallic clang echoed in his skull. Tyrion looked down at his own hand and saw a gold coin flecked with blood.

X.

“Eat.” Agatha commanded, setting a bowl beside her. Sansa blinked. Her eyes were bleary and her head sore. Her whole body was uncomfortable, in fact. Her clear blue eyes searched the hut, finding it illuminated by the golden glow of dawn with the fireplace no more than embers. She sat up on the uncomfortable make-shift bed of hay and linen on the dirt floor.

Her heart jumped into her throat as her eye fell upon Tyrion, “Is he--?”

“Alive? Yes.” Agatha said, “He survived the night. He will survive many more.”

Sansa picked up the bowl, the soup was thin, flavorless, and lukewarm but she was still grateful. She swallowed a spoonful, watching Agatha as she fussed over the bandages around Tyrion’s head and waved a bundle of herbs under his nose.

“What are you doing?”

“These herbs keep the corruption away.” Agatha said, her voice firm and sure. Sansa felt a pang of longing. For her own mother and Old Nan. The question remained as to _why_ this peasant woman was helping them. Did Podrick offer her money? Did she know that Tyrion was a Lannister? Was she just a kind, old woman living on her own?

“You mentioned…a daughter.” Sansa said, wondering how anyone else could fit into the tiny hut. It was already a tight fit with herself, Agatha, Podrick and Tyrion.

“Aye.” Agatha sniffed, taking the herbs and placing them behind Tyrion’s pillow. “She’s wed, now. I expect I’ll see her once more before harvest time. She lives closer to Rosby…”

Sansa perked up, “How far is that?”

“Three days ride, I suppose.” Agatha looked at her with her perceptive grey eyes, “Where did ya say you were from?”

“I’m from the Riverlands.” The lie slipped past her lips easily. It was not a true lie, after all. Her mother was a Tully. Robb should still be in the Riverlands somewhere and even if he wasn’t – if she made it to Riverrun, she’d be able to write a letter or get word to her family. They would be reunited soon. The thought of it made her stomach flutter with excitement. The question remained of how she was going to get there…she couldn’t _walk_ the whole way.

“Hm.” Agatha nodded, but said nothing more. Sansa finished her soup in silence, watching the old woman move around the hut, cleaning, crushing herbs with her mortar and pestle, and muttering to herself. Occasionally, her eyes would drift to Tyrion and she’d feel that ache in her chest.

He survived the night. She shouldn’t be happy for him – but she _was_. She was glad he did not die.

“Where’s Podrick?”

“The quiet boy? He went to tend to the horses and check the rabbit traps. If we’re lucky, we’ll have more than onion soup for dinner.” Agatha handed Sansa a bowl with water and a damp linen cloth, “I’ve got to tend to the garden. Stay beside him. Dab his forehead with the cloth.”

Sansa stared for a moment, dumfounded, at the bowl of water. “I’m sorry, I can’t – I don’t know-- “

“You can and you will.” Agatha’s voice was – again that strong and firm tone – the same tone her lady mother used on Bran when he was climbing again. Sansa could argue no further because Old Agatha was out the door, leaving her with the cloth and bowl and no additional instruction.

Sansa hesitantly approached Tyrion’s side. Her heart was racing – but she could not place why. He would not and could not harm her. He was _asleep_. She dipped the cloth into the bowl, twisted it between her hands to ring it of water, and gently dabbed it against his forehead and cheeks. He did not flinch nor did his eyelids flutter.

“Gentle Mother Above…” The words fell from her lips, unbidden, as she dipped the cloth once more, “Please watch over Lord Tyrion…lend him your gracious mercy so he is not in pain. He is a Lannister, but he protected me from Joffrey’s wrath and returned father’s bones to Winterfell.” She paused for a moment, “Gentle Mother, ease his pain and show him kindness.”

XI.

King’s Landing smoldered for seven days after the Blackwater burned. Yet, it was not just the wildfires’ flames that snowed ashes upon the Red Keep.

Their new King was not merciful. All those who were traitors were not put to the sword but, put to the flame with his Red Priestess standing beside him.

First, was Joffrey and his new queen, Margaery. The Tyrells were outraged and raised their banners against him. But only a spare few took the side of the Tyrells - how could they fight Stannis and his surmounting forces? After all, in the eyes of men, King Stannis and his Red God were unstoppable. The odds were not in his favor, yet Stannis took the throne. It _must_ have been through divine intervention. How could he have survived the wildfire attack? How could they have stormed the walls? The people were afraid, and fear was a great deterrent towards rebellion.

The court was removed. Anyone who Stannis even suspected could not be trusted was given up as an offering to R’hollor and he started with Petyr Baelish…

As for the Lannisters; Tommen, Cersei, and Myrcella managed to escape…but Stannis had issued an order and a Knighthood for their capture and return. It would only be a matter of time before someone found them. The red priestess assured him that they would burn just like the rest.

A woman with red hair was found near Sansa Stark’s chambers – with no one to confirm or deny if it really _was_ the Stark girl – they added her name to the list of the deceased. Stannis sent a letter to Robb Stark informing him that she perished in the siege of King’s Landing and requested that he come to King’s Landing and bend the knee. If Robb were to declare the North’s loyalty to the crown, then Stannis assured him that they would work together to end the Greyjoy Rebellion and bring peace back to the Realm.

Scholars may try to say that this is when the War of the Five Kings ended. Stannis Baratheon had taken the throne. He was the true King.

But, true wisemen know – that _this_ was only the beginning.

Westeros had a long history wars ending in fire and blood. It would not stop now.


	2. Chapter 2

He could hear the most beautiful music. It would lull him to a sandy shoreline with waves crashing along the rocks. The seagulls cried overhead. He could feel the lush, pleasant curve of a woman’s body against his as he laid upon the sunbaked sand.

Sometimes, he saw her face. But it would always disappear before he could recall it. Her hair was red, shining like copper in the sun, and it tumbled in waves down his chest.

He was standing in the Red Keep. The Iron Throne was melting before his very eyes. The liquid metal poured down the steps and pooled at his feet. Tyrion looked around at the faceless, shapeless people of the court as they turned to ash.

XIII.

By the early morning of the third day, with no concrete plan as to how she’d get to Riverrun, she decided she needed to get out of the hut. She could not spend another moment staring at the motionless body of Tyrion Lannister and praying for a gallant knight to rescue her. No one would rescue her. If anyone did come looking – they would be an ally to Joffrey or the Queen Regent – and Sansa decided that she would rather throw herself to the wild wolves than return to the viper’s nest of King’s Landing.

She considered the horses. Podrick had two. She could try and take one, but he kept watch on them nearly all day and she wasn’t going to go out during the evening. That was too great of a risk.

And if Podrick wasn’t watching the horses, then Old Agatha was watching her. She considered joining Agatha on one of her visits to the nearby market, but the fear of running into Lannister soldiers made her stomach turn to stone.

The days seemed to melt together.

With no progress on her plans - Sansa made herself useful. She traded her torn silks for a scratchy honey-colored dress. It had no embroidery or adornment, no jewels or lace. A dress meant for a peasant girl. She sewed and hemmed clothing, assisted where she could when cooking, and listened attentively when Agatha told her about the different kinds of herbs that she used. Her palms were reddened and raw from the days she’d help Podrick out in the garden, tilling the soil, or pulling up weeds.

Every mid-afternoon, it was her duty to stay beside Tyrion, dabbing his face and mouth with a cool cloth.

Sometimes, when she was certain no one was around, she would sing softly to him. Once or twice – she swore she saw his eyelids flutter.

In the evening, Sansa would fall asleep, too tired to even dream.

“Girl, come here. Bring the basket.” Agatha called out, rubbing her chin as she glared at the herbs sprawling along the fence. Agatha never asked her name. She seemed content not to know and was happy calling Podrick ‘Quiet Boy’ and calling her ‘Girl’.

“Do you see this?” She pointed a wizened hand at the lush greenery climbing up the fence, “This here is called ‘Nymeria’s Root’ – no, I don’t know why it’s called ‘root’ when it’s not a root, but…” She reached down and clipped some of it off with her hand, “Beaten into a powder and mixed with ale, the paste can make the skin go numb.”

Old Agatha collected a handful of clippings and dropped it into Sansa’s basket. “Useful when you’ve got to cut corruption away or sew up a wound.”

There was a rustling by the tree line and Sansa’s body froze – prepared to run, if necessary. She hadn’t crossed paths with any soldiers or Lannister men. Yet, that didn’t mean she was _safe_. It had been almost a moon’s turn since her escape from the capital. Would they keep looking for her? _Of course, they would!_ She thought with a grimace, _Joffrey would search every homestead. He wouldn’t be satisfied with just another highborn girl to torment._

Podrick appeared, holding two rabbits, with a smile on his face.

Agatha chuckled, “Aye, that’s a good lad. Girl – go tend to the Fool and I’ll get these rabbits cleaned for supper.”

Sansa felt her heartbeat return to normal and she exhaled as the relief flooded through her veins. She returned to their little home, a hovel – _really_ , but it had provided comfort and shelter and it was the first time since Father died that Sansa felt she could breathe without expecting a chainmail fist to hit her stomach.

She opened the door with her back, her arms wrapped around the basket laden with herbs and few onions and leeks from the garden. It was not heavy, but it _was_ awkward to carry.

“Oh!” The basket tumbled to the floor as her gaze met the green, inquisitive eyes of Tyrion Lannister.

“Lady Stark…” He breathed, saying her name as if it were a prayer, “Am I still dreaming?”

He stared at her – her body covered in a drab, dirty dress, her hair held back by a strip of linen and not styled in any particular fashion, with her cheeks flushed a pretty pink against her pale skin. As she clenched her hands, he noticed the dirt under her fingernails. This was _not_ the Lady Stark he recalled from King’s Landing. It could _not_ be her!

“You’re finally…” She seemed at a loss for words and Tyrion could not blame her. He tried to scratch his face and his fingers met the annoying barrier of the bandages wrapped around his skull. He took a different approach and looked around his surroundings. This was a peasant’s hut, to be sure. He inhabited the only bed – if one could call it that. Dried herbs hung along the walls, a small table and chair were shoved into the corner, making as much space as possible along the dirt and hay covered floor.

“Agatha!” Sansa called out, finally finding her wits about her.

Tyrion didn’t know the name or the face of the woman as she came through the threshold.

“Pod!” Tyrion lit up, “You’re alive!”

Podrick’s face went red and he nodded, bashful, and hunching his shoulders to try and take up as little space as possible. “You saved my life, Podrick.” He recalled Ser Moore’s expression and watching the green-black waters swallow the knight, weighted by his heavy armor.

“I’m eager to know the whole story, m’lord.” Agatha said, crouching in front of him, “Let’s get these bandages off, eh?”

“Ex-excuse me, who are you?”

Agatha rolled her eyes, “I’m just the Old bat who’s nursed ye back to health this past week. Now, hold still, lest I take yer nose off.”

Tyrion remained still and watched the expressions of Lady Sansa and Podrick as the bandage was removed. Gods, it felt good to have the air touch his skin. He watched Sansa’s eyes dart to the floor and Podrick swallowed.

“That bad, is it?” Tyrion asked, a chuckle lacing his tone.

“Not at all, my lord.” Sansa spoke quickly – always a lady, always so courteous.

He touched his face. His nose was still there – that’s good.

“You’ll have a nice scar, m’lord, but that’s about it. I saved both your eyes.” Agatha sounded pleased with herself. “I’m afraid I don’t own a looking glass, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Tyrion looked to the old woman, “You wouldn’t happen to have any ale or wine, would you? My throat is rather dry.”

She smiled at him, most of her teeth missing, “Aye. I’ll be expecting to hear the full story.”

XIV

“So, you and Lady Sansa have been here awaiting my recovery?” He asked, looking to Podrick, who nodded in response.

He turned his gaze to Sansa, who was awfully quiet during the whole exchange, “I know how I got here…but how did _you_ get here, Lady Stark?”

She looked nervous that he had asked such a forward question. Then, he saw, she found some resolve inside herself and spoke. “I ran away. All the guards left my care and so I…ran…and then I found this place and Agatha has been _most_ kind.” That part was genuine, he could tell. “I hope to return to the Riverlands…but I’ve yet to find the best time to travel.”

Tyrion would never had suspected that Sansa Stark would _flee_. He was good at guessing the next move of his opponents. He understood _people_. He understood what motivated them – usually it was gold, women, or power. Yet, Sansa surprised him. He saw how she wore her courtesies like an armor while in the Red Keep and hid her sorrow behind a porcelain mask. Her actions were almost irrational, but when left with two choices – remain in the Keep and suffer Joffrey’s attention or run into the woods – he supposed he could understand why the dark woods would be more appealing.

“Aye, roads are dangerous as ever, still. Even with the new King on the throne.”

No one seemed to breathe as Agatha spoke.

“New King?” Tyrion asked, his grip on his mug tightening. “Who would that be?”

“King Stannis, of course.” Agatha scoffed. “I don’t much care who sits on what seat, mind you. I only just heard when the miller’s daughter came up this way for her Moon Tea this morn’.”

“Do you have any other news of King’s Landing?” Tyrion asked, thinking of Tommen, who was blameless in this…but would Stannis make him pay for the sins of their mother? Would Cersei have let go of her pride and saved her children? And his father? Did the reinforcements ever reach the city? Were the Tyrell forces enough? Did the wildfire consume the city?

Agatha shrugged, “Just what the miller’s daughter told me. King Stannis sits on the throne. He burned up any traitors.”

Sansa turned her face away and looked down into her mug of brown ale. She did not like the taste, nor how it made her head swim, but she preferred that then to looking at Tyrion’s hurt expression. Stannis wouldn’t have let anyone live. Not Cersei. Not her children. Joffrey was a monster, she knew, but Tommen? He was a child – just like Rickon or Bran.

Her brother, if he still called himself King in the North, would be a traitor in King Stannis’ eyes.

“Where’s the nearest castle or holdfast?” Tyrion asked.

“Harrenhall.” Agatha’s mouth twisted into a frown, “Cursed place. If I were to send you anywhere, I’d say go east – to Rosby – find my daughter and get yourself a ship.”

“Why a ship?”

Agatha looked at him, a flash of pity in her eyes, “I’m not blind, m’lord. Tis only a matter of time before the King starts offerin’ rewards for traitors.” Her gaze went to Sansa, “I won’t turn ye in. But you best be getting on your way and far from here, too.”

Tyrion’s eyes returned to Sansa and he could see – despite how she looked out the window – that she was planning her next move. Agatha looked between them, scratched her chin, and then stood.

“I ought to get back to skinnin’ the rabbits.”

The trio was left alone in the hut and a silence fell over them. Tyrion finished his ale, sighed, and then rubbed his face with both hands.

“Lady Stark, last I knew – your brother was in the Riverlands.” _And so was Jaime_ – His inner voice added. Could that be where Cersei and her children, if they lived, would go? His father might still be holding Harrenhall. There were too many variables that Tyrion _didn’t_ know. He didn’t know who was alive and who was dead. He needed information. He wasn’t going to find it within the confines of this farmer’s hut that smelled of smoldering tobacco.

Sansa nodded.

Tyrion mused over their options. Harrenhall wasn’t far – but the Lannisters might not hold it. It could be claimed by Stannis or the North or a third player that Tyrion wasn’t aware of. They could take their chances and get a ship – but go where? The Vale would not welcome them. They could try for White Harbor, return Sansa to her family, but how safe would she be? How safe were the waters with Balon Greyjoy reaving the coastlines? They could go east and seek friendships in Braavos or Pentos. Tyrion could write a letter to Varys – if the spider still lived.

He needed information and allies. There was one final place that they could go. He just hoped his luck hadn’t run out.

“We’ll head out in the morning.” Tyrion said, his voice solemn, and he looked to Sansa – “I planned to return you to your family in exchange for Jaime. I intend to do just that.” Damn what his father might say. Stannis held the throne, Joffrey was dead, the rest of his family missing, and Jaime was the only one who ever loved him anyway. Despite the monster he was – Jaime _loved_ him. He wouldn’t leave him to the wolves.

Her blue eyes widened at his words, “Where are we going?”

Tyrion looked at Podrick, a wry smile on his lips, “To get some help.”

XV

Catelyn shook her head, letter still grasped between her shaking fingers, “No. It’s _not_ your sister.” She would know it in her bones if her daughter was dead. She _would_.

Robb paced around the tent. He wanted to rage. He wanted to cry. The crown weighed heavy on his head. Arya was missing – likely dead, Sansa was dead, and Stannis Baratheon wanted him to bend the knee. His letter spoke of being allies and of rooting out the corruption that the Lannister’s spread across the Realm. His letter also stated that if Robb didn’t bend the knee, then he was a traitor – like the rest – and would be dealt with.

“They found her body!” Robb exhaled harshly through his nose, “We have to go back to the North. I won’t fight Stannis in the Crownlands. Stannis’ ships burned in the Blackwater. We hold the Twins. It makes sense to return North.”

“Fight him?!” Catelyn lifted her eyes and stared at her son, “Our grievance is with the _Lannisters_ , Robb. Not Stannis Baratheon.”

“They named me King in the North!” He protested, slamming a fist onto the map on the table. “We fall back and let Stannis’ forces deal with the remaining Lannisters in the Riverlands. We have no reason to march on King’s Landing.”

“What about Arya?!”

“No one’s found her, Mother. She could’ve died in the siege. They say wildfire took half the city.” Robb sank into his chair, looking older than she ever recalled. She wanted this war to be over. She wanted to go home. But she did not want to abandon her daughters. Stannis was a just and honorable man. She knew he would not harm Sansa – or Arya – if she was found.

“You would keep your pride and sacrifice the safety of your sisters? Of your men?” She asked, hoping he would see reason. There were worse kings than Stannis Baratheon. Her mind conjured the image of the shadow inside the tent and her stomach twisted at the thought. If Brienne was right and the shadow was Stannis…if the rumors were true about the Red Woman who stood by his side…

Catelyn watched a candle flame flicker and felt her blood go to ice.

“It’s not pride.” Robb responded; his tone stiff. “They follow me not because they call me King, but because they trust me. It’s a matter of honor. They chose me. I did not ask for this crown. I only wanted vengeance for father.”

Catelyn looked with sorrow upon her eldest son and left the tent. Brienne fell into step behind her as she walked. If Robb would not do the right thing, then she would. Seven help her but she knew Sansa was not dead. Arya’s wildness might keep her awake at night, but it was that same wildness that made Catelyn believe her youngest daughter was alive, too. 

“You’ve passed your tent, m’lady.” Brienne spoke up, her voice soft.

“I know.” Catelyn said, her voice full of resolve and strength as she strode towards their golden prisoner. 

XVI

Sansa’s legs were sore, and her nose freckled from the hours of sunlight as they journeyed along the Kingsroad. Podrick was quiet – as always. Lord Tyrion tried to keep conversation with her but gave up before the sun reached its peak in the sky. She found that she just did not have much to say to the Lannister.

Well, in fact, she had plenty to say – _but she was a lady_. How could she tell him that she stared upon his face and prayed to the Mother that she’d see his brilliant green eyes once more? Even if they looked upon her with mockery. How could she tell him that she wiped blood from his brow? Sang him soft lullabies when no one else could hear? How she would stir in the middle of the night and sit up to look upon him and check to see if he was still breathing? She cared for him and in her own way, helped him back to health. Old Agatha said just as much.

Before they left, she crouched and spoke in that raspy, warm voice of hers – _“It’s not just me in your debt, Lord Lannister. It’s the girl and the boy, too. They kept watch and tended to ye as much as I did.”_

What did it mean, then, that Tyrion Lannister owed her a debt? Would he return her to her family without getting his brother back?

“I don’t know about you, Pod, but I could use a drink.” Tyrion said with a smile as a building came into view over the crest of the hill. “I hear this inn has a lovely spiced rum.”

Sansa frowned. Who could consider _drinking_ at a time like this?

“I thought we were going to get help, m’lord?”

Tyrion looked back at her from his place, sharing a horse with Podrick, “Have some faith, Lady Stark. You can find all sorts of help in places like these!”

XVII

Tyrion knew there was a chance that his back-up plan would have blown to bits with the rest of the ships and soldiers on the Blackwater. He’d just have to come up with another plan. There was always Harrenhall, or a ship willing to take a few stowaways, or – if the Gods really had a sense of humor – he’d wind up delivering Sansa Stark back to Winterfell himself.

The three patrons of the inn stopped speaking when Tyrion Lannister walked in.

He had that effect on places…and he expected it would only increase with the mark upon his face. _Ah well, let them gawk, they’ll be keen to listen to what I have to say._ He cleared his throat.

“Good day!” He addressed the innkeeper with a smile, “I’d like three mugs of your renowned spiced rum, some bread and cheese – if you have it.”

Tyrion led his unlikely group to a table and watched Sansa – how she narrowed her eyes at the other men in the establishment. He watched how she folded her hands neatly across her lap, how her upper lip was curled ever-so slightly in that haughty way of highborn girls, and the ramrod straightness of her back. You could put Sansa Stark in a peasant girls dress, cover her in dirt and mud – but she’d never **_be_** a peasant girl.

It was hardly a full minute before someone, with an apparent swagger, appeared from the kitchens. “I bet ten silver that you were dead and at the bottom of the Blackwater!” Bronn said with a grin, and then his eyes fell upon Sansa Stark and that grin disappeared, “Did you kidnap the girl as well?!”

“No!” Tyrion threw his hands into the air, “It’s a long story and I imagine we’ll have plenty of time to tell it” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, “I’m glad you made it out alive, Bronn.”

Bronn took a seat at the table and crossed his arms, “Aye, that makes two of us. And you’ll owe me a fat lot of gold when all this is done.”

A serving girl brought the drinks over, gave a flirtatious smile to Bronn, and Tyrion didn’t fail to notice that her apron was tied askew and her bodice unlaced.

“I haven’t even told you what I need help with.”

Bronn gave a pointed look to Sansa and then back to Tyrion, “I can make a guess.”

“First, I need to know what happened. King’s Landing. All of it…” His green eyes went to Sansa, studying her expression. She already lost so much – to Joffrey’s cruelty, to the cruelty of other Kings and men. It was not a conversation that was delicate to a lady’s sensibilities. “If you’d like to sit this conversation out, I understand.”

Sansa’s gaze fell upon him and he felt – _suddenly and alarmingly_ – exposed. “I wish to remain here, my lord.”

Tyrion nodded and motioned his hand towards Bronn.

“Where the fuck to even start…”

“Bronn!”

“What?!”

Tyrion sighed loudly and picked up chunk of bread, tearing it into two between his fingers, “Just…consider present company before you begin, please.”

He looked at Sansa, “Apologizes, my lady.” His apology did not sound the least bit sincere, but Tyrion would address that later. For now, he just needed to know who and _what_ he was up against. Yes, Stannis Baratheon had the throne – but what did that mean for the rest of the Realm?

Bronn followed Tyrion’s instructions. If the battle appeared to go south, Bronn was to take the mountain clansmen – if he could – and flee to this specific inn. There would be a small payment of gold waiting for him. He would collect information and await a letter from Tyrion or Tyrion’s arrival itself. If more than three moons passed or if Tyrion was publicly executed, then a messenger would arrive with the rest of his payment and relieve Bronn from Tyrion’s services.

Lucky for the lot of them – three moons hadn’t passed yet. And Tyrion had counted on Bronn’s greedy nature. There was no way he’d abandon the job without getting paid.

“Well, Stannis Baratheon is – well – he’s not as Mad as – oh – old king Aerys. But, he’s not sane, neither. They say he died at Blackwater, but the Red Woman kissed him, and he came back to life with flames in his eyes. I don’t know how _true_ that is. Me and the boys were already on the Kingsroad by then.” Bronn rubbed the stubble on his jaw.

“The Tyrells had their asses handed to them…. I don’t think there’s a single one of them left in the capital. Same with anyone else in Cersei’s employ. Guards, maidens, didn’t matter. Stannis burned them all.”

Tyrion heard Sansa’s soft inhale. He flexed his fingers against the pewter mug. He wished he could give her some comfort – take her hand or pat her knee. He squashed down the desire.

“Robb Stark still calls himself King. Stannis named him a traitor. They say he’s regaining his strength to march on his enemies.” Bronn passed a barely sympathetic glance to Sansa – whose face revealed nothing. Tyrion had to assume that she expected this. After all, her brother was named King in the North. Northerners were stubborn and proud and distrustful. They wouldn’t willingly bend the knee to follow Stannis. Not if he was burning anyone who disagreed with him. The death of Rickard Stark at the hands of a fire-obsessed king was not far off in their memories.

“What about my father?” Tyrion asked, trying his best to ignore the churning in his stomach.

“Still alive, last I knew.” He shrugged, “Depending on who you listen to, he’s planning to go after the Stark King or march to King’s Landing once Stannis leaves the capital or he’s running back to Casterly Rock and keen to declare himself King of the Rock.”

Tyrion let Bronn’s words sink in. Robb Stark was alive, that was good. That meant Sansa could return to her family. Perhaps he could bury the hatchet between the Lannisters and Starks. Especially if Stannis proved to be…as unstable…as he seemed.

Bronn smeared a bit of the soft cheese onto the bread, speaking around his food as he spoke, “Now – what-about-you?” He pointed the butter knife between Tyrion and Sansa and Podrick.

“I think we’ll need a bit more of that rum…” Tyrion said, motioning over the serving wench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you really have a Sansa and Tyrion fic without Bronn?! NO U CAN'T. 
> 
> Also, expect some time-jumping stuff. Will it be as crazy as Varys, the time traveler? from whatever season? - like bitch maybe. I hope ya'll are enjoying this story <3 thank you for all your lovely comments


	3. Chapter 3

XIX

Sansa didn’t like the company she was traveling with. The clansmen were terrifying and filthy. Bronn – the sell sword - was rude, loud-mouthed, and crass. But, his banter with Tyrion swallowed up the long hours on horseback. Tyrion’s plan was to journey to Harrenhall, resupply, and find an appropriate escort to bring her to Riverrun. He hoped to send a raven, too, if there was time. Sansa looked over at Lord Tyrion, the rays of sunlight illuminating his hair to a golden sheen. He smiled at something Bronn said and then quipped a reply – witty as ever. She clutched her reins.

She was not a prisoner. She could break away, take her horse and run, but Sansa chose to stay. It was safer and Tyrion promised to return her to her family. _When did you start trusting Lannisters?_ A voice that sounded like the Hound’s entered her mind. Sansa brushed an errant strand of red hair from her face. _I do not trust him. I would be a fool to trust any Lannister. But Lord Tyrion is doing all he can to ensure my safe return. I must stay with him. Even if he keeps poor company…_

She shifted on her saddle and grimaced at the soreness between her legs. She did not often ride in Winterfell. Arya was the one who always wanted to ride horses and get her dresses all dirty. Sansa would have preferred riding in a litter, but they didn’t have one, and it would draw too much attention anyway. She would endure. As she always had.

_Remember, you’re a wolf._

“We should set up camp here.” Bronn said, passing his wineskin to Tyrion, “I’ve gotta piss.”

The traveling party broke away from the road. Sansa let one of the clansmen help her down from her horse and she steadied herself on the soggy grassland. Setting up camp always fell into such a standard routine. Someone would get the firewood. Another would tend to the horses. They’d set up watch and figure out who would sleep first. They would ration their meal which consisted mainly of hard cheese, bread, and dried apples and meats. She longed for a hot meal or a piece of lemon cake.

Sansa shared a small tent with the only other woman – a clanswoman named Shella – who braided men’s teeth in her hair. It was _disgusting_. Shella knew little of the common tongue and her mannerisms were odd. The first evening that they had set up camp, Shella gave her a large stone, and said “Hit on head. Bad men.”

It took Sansa a moment to realize that Shella was providing her with a means to protect herself in case things should go awry.

That too became a part of the routine. Shella would always find a decent, easy-to-hold rock and place it beside Sansa’s bedroll with a thin smile. The other clansmen, either due to Tyrion’s instructions or something else, generally avoided her. They did not speak to her. Only gave her cautious, wary glances while on the road.

It was lonelier than the Red Keep but, at least she was safe from Joffrey. She’d always be safe from him. Stannis took care of that monster…but, if it seemed that they traded one monster for another. Sansa looked up at the stars and prayed for her brother’s safety, for her mother’s safety, and everyone else. Even Arya. Wherever she was.

“Lady Sansa,” Sansa tore her eyes away from the starlight, “May I sit with you?”

Sansa nodded, “Of course, my lord.”

She watched as he lowered himself to the grass. The firelight cast long shadows and flickered orange along his face. She could see the hint of stubble along his jaw.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his expression was… _kind_. That was the only word she could use to describe it. She looked at the scar across his face and wondered, not for the first time, if it had been Joffrey or Cersei who ordered Ser Moore to try and take his life.

She pursed her lips, “You mean with the knowledge that even with a new king, my family is still a traitor to the crown?”

“Yes.” His lips pulled into a frown, “I would have thought Stannis to be more reasonable…I can only hope that my father will see sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know why my father raised his banners against your house?”

“Because my father was a traitor to the crown and conspired to undermine Joffrey’s rule.” Sansa said, on instinct, the lie falling from her lips without a second thought. There was a flash in Tyrion’s green eyes, but she couldn’t decipher it.

“No.” Tyrion sighed, “Well, not entirely just that. Your mother kidnapped me because she believed I had something to do with the attempt on Bran’s life. You see, the catspaw had used a dagger that your mother believed was _mine_.” Tyrion shook his head, “She was told that I lost it in a tourney after betting against Jaime and I would _never_ bet against my brother.”

Sansa let his words sink in.

“Joffrey no longer sits on the throne and Stannis sees enemies in every port. It would be folly to continue fighting the Starks. It would only end in more death.” Tyrion lifted the wineskin to his lips and tilted his head back. Sansa watched as his adams’ apple bobbed as he swallowed. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“What if your father says no?” She asked, her voice quite among the laughing clansman and the crackle of the firewood.

Tyrion looked pensive at her question, his eyes leaving her face and watching the firelight, as her eyes remained on his profile and watched the shadows dance across the curves of his face.

“Then I’ll keep my word, my lady, and bring you to Riverrun without his help.”

XX.

Tyrion woke to the sound of screaming. _Seven hells!_ His next thought was of Sansa. He scrambled to his feet and groped through the darkness. The campfire had long since been stamped out for the evening and his eyes strained to see in the muddled darkness. He could hear the clash of steel and the guttural cry of one of his clansmen. He struggled through the darkness, feeling his way around the tent and then outside. The fresh, dewy air hit his face.

A light burst forth in the darkness and Tyrion blocked his eyes. He blinked, nearly blinded by the torch, yet grateful for its illumination.

He saw Shella wielding her two axes and standing in front of Sansa’s tent. He saw Podrick holding his shield. He saw Bronn gracefully ducking out of the way of an oncoming blow.

“Morning sweetheart!” Bronn called out, “Glad you could join us!”

Tyrion wasn’t listening. The ringing in his ears drowned out everything else. “Where’s Sansa?!” As the words carried across the darkness, his eyes then fell upon her. She stood nearly three feet away from Shella, her arms clutched around her chest, and her dress bloodied.

His stomach recoiled and the wine churned up his throat.

Her pale face lifted, and her eyes met his across the chaos. Wide, blue, and panicked, a fleck of blood marred her flushed cheek.

How many horrors must she witness?! The anger took hold in his heart. He was helpless to save her and helpless to protect her. What good was being a Lannister if couldn’t stop things like this from happening?!

“Get down, Halfman!” Another roar across the darkness and Tyrion ducked – just in time – as an arrow flew past.

That was all the motivation he needed. Tyrion ran towards Sansa, trusting that Bronn and the rest could handle their attackers. He felt as if he were walking in a dream. He knew his legs were moving, but goddammit they weren’t moving fast enough. Shella circled around him as he crossed the firepit and his fingertips touched the scratchy fabric of Sansa’s dress.

“My lady, are you hurt?!”

Her wild eyes sought his face and she shook her head. He stared at the blood and bit his lower lip. If it wasn’t hers, then…?

The sound of battle ended, as abrupt as it had started, and Sansa fell forward onto her knees. Tyrion exhaled, his heart racing, and his body buzzing with adrenaline. He was numbly aware of Bronn talking and the other clansmen. He heard none of it. He could only see the redhaired girl and her bloody dress. He could only hear the soft whimpers that she struggled to contain.

“It’s alright…it’s alright…” He muttered, lifting his hand and wiping the speck of blood from her cheek.

“Girl killed bad man.” Shella said, her voice gruff and oddly proud. “We take his teeth.”

Tyrion didn’t understand for a moment…and then he looked: a man was lying in the grass, his eyes open and unseeing, a darkened red wet-spot on his temple. He looked away as Shella lifted the limp body and declared she’d go dump him with the rest.

He felt – rather than saw Sansa shift – and suddenly her forehead was on his shoulder. He dared not move. He didn’t want to frighten her. As if she were a timid fawn…

“It’s over now, my lady.” He whispered, “It’s over.”

He almost didn’t hear her when she finally spoke – “For now.” Was all she said.

I.

Stannis stared into the flames. Melissandre was nearby, saying nothing, revealing nothing, but he did not need her to _see_.

 _A wolf’s head on top of a man’s body_. His eyes watered from the smoke of the fire, yet he persisted, and continued to gaze. _The Iron Throne melting by fire._ He blinked, scowled, and resumed. _The Wall._

“Did you see what I saw, my king?” Melissandre asked.

“I saw the wall.” Stannis’ tone was hard and cold.

“That is where the battle must be fought.” She said, as her eyes left his and stared out across the keep, “We will not keep the throne if we cannot save the Realm…”

II.

Sansa could hardly eat for the next few days. She nibbled bread and sipped water. She could tell it was worrying the others – but they couldn’t do anything. They couldn’t help her. She could feel Tyrion’s gaze on her as they rode. He tried to speak to her, to bring her into his conversations with Podrick and Bronn, but she would fall back on her courtesies and then to silence.

She would close her eyes and see that outlaw’s face above her. She would smell the ale on his breath. She would hear the sickening blow as the rock hit his head. She would feel his body fall on top of hers. Again, and again, and again. She burned the dress. She had thought it might help since the blood wouldn’t wash off. It didn’t. Her only dress left was the ugly brown one given to her by one of the serving girls at the inn. It was a bit too small around the waist and the front was too low for her liking, but what else could she wear? It wasn’t like the Kingsroad had dozens of marketplaces to stop at.

“Finally!” Tyrion announced, turning his head to smile at Sansa, “This inn will have the most comfortable beds you’ve ever slept in, my lady.”

She smiled politely back at him, “I believe you, my lord.”

The clansmen were the only ones who were pleased by the outlaw attack. Sansa overheard them – multiple times – talking about the new swords and trophies that they obtained. They sat together in a corner at the inn. While Sansa herself was escorted upstairs to her room.

They drew her a bath and she had never been more thankful to see hot water in her entire life. She dunked her head into the water and scrubbed her skin until it turned pink. The water went murky with the grime as it sloughed from her body.

Sansa tilted her head back, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, as the water trailed down her back and neck.

Her gaze lazily moved to the dreadful brown dress hanging near the fire.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell._

_I survived Joffrey’s cruelty._

_I escaped from King’s Landing on my own._

_I killed someone._

She blinked as the weight of the words settled in her chest. She killed someone. Would the Gods forgive her? She always prayed to them. She always believed that they would show mercy and kindness. 

_Robb killed men. Your father killed men. Even Aegon Targaryen killed men when he conquered Westeros._

_That’s different. That was war._

She looked down at her hands and began scrubbing the dirt away from under her nails.

_You do what you must in order to survive._

III.

Tyrion cut into his sausage, watching as the juices seeped out and onto his plate. It was the best meal he had all week. The roasted onions and mashed turnips were almost as good. The beer was dark and rich. The cook also claimed he could make a few oatcakes for them as well. Tyrion was just glad the food was hot. He paid one of the serving girls to take a plate up to Sansa. He did not like how fragile her face looked lately. He didn’t want her to faint while on the road. They had another ten days – at least – before reaching Harrenhall.

“The clansmen are quite taken with your redhead.” Bronn said conversationally, his feet kicked up, as he shoved another spoonful of turnips into his mouth.

“She’s not – wait – what do you mean?” Tyrion looked at his clansmen who talked and argued loudly among themselves.

“Aye.” Bronn said, “You haven’t noticed? It’s quite impressive to them when someone gets their first kill.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Tyrion snapped, “She was defending herself!”

“And she did a right good job.” Bronn sounded pleased. “Who woulda thought a highborn girl like that could think so quick on her feet? We ought to give her a sword.”

“She’s likely to stab _you_ with it first, Bronn.” Tyrion said, dipping his bread into the gravy and licking his fingers clean. “You should see the contemptuous stares she gives you when we’re riding.”

Bronn laughed at that.

“And you should see the stares she gives _you_.”

“Equally contemptuous, I imagine.”

“No.” He waved down the serving girl for another beer, “Maybe you should pay closer attention. She _blushes_.”

Bronn was trying to get a rise out of him. It wouldn’t work. Tyrion sighed, “Sansa Stark’s father –”

“--was executed by your cunt of a nephew.” Bronn cut in, “Don’t see how that has anything to do with _you_.”

He tried again, “Her family—”

“--is fighting yours out of a false pretense that you tried to have her brother killed. You said it yourself. It’s dumb. We’ve got a bigger fight to worry about with Aerys the Second on the throne.”

“What exactly is the point of this, Bronn?”

The sellsword shrugged, “Entertainment, I guess.”

Tyrion finished his drink and pushed away his empty plate. “I think I’ll go find my entertainment elsewhere.”

“With a redhead?” Bronn smirked and dropped a piece of pastry into his mouth.

IV.

Tyrion rapped his knuckles against the door, “My lady, may I enter?”

He heard shuffling and then, “Of course, my lord.” The room glowed with the heat of the fireplace and Sansa herself sat nearby on a wooden stool. Her hair hung in limp, wet strands around her face. Tyrion felt his heart pull and he didn’t know why.

Perhaps he felt sorry for her or responsible for the awful incident on the road. He should have done more to keep her safe. Maybe even pushed them to ride into the night until they found an inn or holdfast to stay at.

Bronn’s words echoed in his skull. He ignored them.

“I – well – I brought you something.” Tyrion approached her with the plate. The singular blueberry tart glistened in the light.

Sansa looked at him, as if he were a puzzle that she was trying desperately to solve, and then she looked down at the tart. “Thank you. That is most kind.”

She reached out and placed the plate on her lap. Silence fell over them. What could he possibly say? That he was sorry? That he wasn’t like his brother. He would never be able to protect her with a sword. All he had was his mind. His wit and his gold. And what did he expect by coming to her this evening? Bronn clearly had no idea what he was talking about. She despised him and his family. She only nursed him back to health after the battle because she had no other option. She only continued to journey with him because she had no other choice. He felt like a fool.

Tyrion cleared his throat, “Goodnight, my lady.”

“Lemoncakes – “He stopped, his hand on the door to leave, “Those are my favorite…these are nice, too, I just…” She trailed off and looked away. She could not claim to understand what possessed her to tell him that.

Tyrion looked back at her.

“If there’s anything else you need, my lady, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I just kinda like...ret-conned Shae out of the story LMAO. Whoops.


	4. Chapter 4

V.

Tyrion felt a rock in his stomach as they grew closer to Harrenhall. His wine and his company could not relieve it. He thought of his father’s judgmental stare. He could already imagine their conversation – how he’d ridicule Tyrion for his survival and damn him for his failure to save the city.

They underestimated Stannis. _He_ underestimated Stannis.

What did the Lannisters have now? Cersei – missing, presumed dead. Jaime – a captive to Robb Stark. Tommen – missing, presumed dead. Myrcella was safe – thank the Gods for that. Even if the Dornish had little love for the Lannisters after what happened to Elia Martell, they would not stoop so low as to kill a child.

He hoped they would honor the betrothal and find some semblance of peace. Dorne was still untouched by the war of Five – well – _Three_ Kings. 

And then there was Sansa. The courteous, Northern wolf. He paid closer attention after speaking with Bronn at the inn. Indeed, the clansmen were more open to speaking to her. They talked of the Vale – mostly – and their techniques for hunting and finding food in the mountains. Sansa listened to them. She graciously asked questions where it was fitting. Her mannerisms were stiff and polite, but the clansmen didn’t seem to mind. They looked at her with respect.

He had yet to see her smile.

_‘Well, what would you expect? This isn’t a jolly camping trip. Her family is still threatened by the crown’s rule and your father’s forces…just because she’s out of King’s Landing doesn’t mean she’s happy. She’ll smile when she sees her family again.’_

And Tyrion wanted to be there to see it.

She was no longer a pawn – for Joffrey, for his family, or anyone else. She’d be able to return to the North, perhaps her mother would find her a better match (truthfully, anyone would be better than Joffrey), and she’d be the lady of some castle.

He couldn’t save everyone in King’s Landing, but he could save _one girl_. A girl who loved lemon cakes. The Gods may see it as his own good deed in his entire, treacherous life. He killed his own mother coming into this world…the least he could do was save an honorable man’s daughter.

VI.

Sansa had plenty of time to think on their journey and the thought that entered her mind the most was: What would Tywin do?

Odds were, he was still fighting her brother. The Lannister’s had always been prideful. That meant she could easily become a prisoner again. Tyrion seemed confident in his ability to protect her (or rather, the ability of his mountain clansmen) – but Sansa saw their weapons. They were crude – rusted, made by their own hand, or pilfered from one of the bodies they found on the roadside. Their armor was leather or fur. If Tywin struck against them – his men with their steel armor and swords would slaughter them.

Tyrion was also betting that he’d be able to convince his father to lay down his arms and return home.

Sansa knew that the likelihood of Tywin allying himself with Stannis was an impossibility. Stannis had burned Tywin’s grandson alive. But what were the chances that Tywin would ally himself with others against Stannis? That had been another of Tyrion’s ideas. ‘ _The Realm against a merciless King who worships a false God’._ Sansa did not think that plan would work, either. Her little cousin ruled the Vale – she doubted he would help. He was only Bran’s age. The Reach was without leadership and in chaos. People turned a blind eye to Joffery and they turned a blind eye to Aerys. Whose to say they wouldn’t turn a blind eye to Stannis? When men wore crowns, they thought they could do whatever they liked and everyone else let them get away with it.

Harrenhall loomed in the horizon, its ruinous towers stark against the bright blue skyline.

Shella grunted beside her, “Cursed.” She spit into the road.

Sansa sat up, “Have you heard of this place?”

Shella shook her head. “We know stone. We see curse.”

She frowned at her companions’ words. Her knees pressed into the side of her horse as she increased the speed to a trot, slowing once she reached Tyrion’s side.

“My Lord, I have a suggestion.”

Tyrion looked curiously at her from his saddle that he shared with Podrick, “Of course, Lady Stark.”

“We’ve been traveling for over two weeks. There is a chance that Bronn’s information – though accurate at the time – is no longer relevant. I see Lannister banners, but we can’t know for _certain_ if your father holds Harrenhall or if he left it to another lord.”

Tyrion’s brow knit, “Then what is your suggestion?”

“We send a messenger.” She said, her voice calm and sure, “If we walk in there now, then we’re at the mercy of whoever holds the castle…just because they’re flying Lannister colors doesn’t mean they’re loyal.” Sansa knew – thanks to Bronn’s many stories on the road - how a few gold coins could turn someone’s loyalty.

Tyrion stared at her. Truly. His mouth slightly agape and his green eyes widened. Sansa bit her lip, “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, my lord, I was just merely –”

“Saving our hides is what you were doing.” Bronn cut in, “She’s got a point, milord.” He looked back at the rest of the traveling company, “We’re outnumbered if some cocky solider decides to capture the Imp who burned Stannis’ fleet and turn him in. I don’t know why _I_ didn’t think of that...probably because I was too busy listening to _you_.”

Tyrion finally tore his gaze away from her and her stomach fluttered.

“Bronn, I believe you just volunteered to come with me.” Tyrion said, his lips quirked into a small smile. “Podrick and the others will stay here to guard Lady Stark. If we do not return, Pod,” He craned his neck to see his squire, “then it will be your task to escort Lady Stark to Riverrun. Can I trust you with that?”

Podrick’s face turned beet red and he looked, nervously, to Sansa and then nodded.

“Good.” Tyrion slowed his horse to a halt, “We will set up camp here, then.”

VII.

Harrenhall was in _chaos_. There were soldiers running to and from, piles of bodies being pushed out on wooden carts and dumped onto a funeral pyre in the Flowstone Yard. It smelled of horse shit and charcoal. He was suddenly glad that Sansa and the others were hidden away.

He strode through the main gate with his head high. He was a _Lannister_. Regardless of who held the castle, he wasn’t going to be harmed.

It didn’t take long before he and Bronn were escorted into the barracks hall where the men were taking their meals.

His eyes fell upon the ugly, angered face of Gregor Clegane. The clamor of men suddenly quieted as all eyes fell upon him and Bronn. Gregor spoke first.

“ _The Imp_ lives.”

“I do.” Tyrion looked at the men in the room, “It seems my father has already left.”

Gregor sneered at him, “Aye. The Wolf King was attacking the Westerlands, so he left the castle to me…and I’ve been _busy_ …” He said, earning a few chuckles from his men. “Plenty of traitors in these lands…I’m sure you saw a few as you came in, hm?”

Tyrion thought of the bodies hanging by the gates. He said nothing. So, his father had gone west, then. Very well. He could not ask his father for help, but it was no matter. These men were loyal to House Lannister. He could get supplies, horses, and keep his intentions a secret. It wasn’t like Ser Gregor was clever enough to ask.

Tyrion walked to the high table, helping himself to a mug of dark beer, “I’m sure my father would be pleased to see all your hard work.” Gregor did not catch the sarcasm in his tone. “But, enlighten me, why would he have you stay here when he’s fighting Robb Stark? Surely if anyone is needed on the battlefield, it’s someone like _you_.”

“Only for now, _Imp_.” Gregor said, his smile revealed his yellowed teeth, “We will be leaving this place soon.” His words caused another shuffle of his men, nodding and thumping their fists on the tables. “We’re to take Riverrun and put an end to the King in the North.”

Tyrion didn’t let his face reveal his thoughts. So, his father planned to march on Riverrun. Interesting. Could he get Sansa further North, then? He thought of the old woman – Agatha – who had saved the three of them after the Blackwater. Perhaps she was right…he should have found a ship and sailed east. They could have hidden in the Free Cities. Then he could have taken a ship to White Harbor. Skipped the warring lands and brought her right back home.

Gregor looked at him, his dark eyes narrowing, “They say King Stannis surrounds himself with smugglers, whores, and fools.” Tyrion met Gregor’s gaze – unflinching – though he did not like where his train of thought was going. “Whose to say he doesn’t have a dwarf in his employ too?”

“Mind your tongue, Ser Gregor.” Tyrion said with steel in his tone, “I would never betray my family.”

Gregor stood to his full height, and out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Bronn put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

VIII.

Catelyn could no longer stomach her grief. She watched as her father withered away, as her son scorned her for her actions and now this – now _this_. The Greyjoy’s had taken Winerfell. She had warned Robb not to trust Theon. She _warned_ him. But he was no longer a boy who would listen to his mother.

And now there was to be a war fought on the very moors where she grew up as a child.

She just wanted to rest. She wanted to hold her children in her arms. She wanted to lay Ned’s bones in the crypts. She wanted to weep. Yet, she could not. She braided her hair and donned her cloak and listened to the men as they spoke in hushed tones, glancing at her, a mixture of pity and distrust in their eyes.

‘ _What would you do?!’_ She wanted to yell at them, ‘ _If it were your child?! Your son or daughter? Would you let them burn? Would you leave them?’_

She lit candles at the sept and knelt in front of the Mother, “Gracious Mother, watch over Sansa, Arya, and Robb, and –” She inhaled sharply, fighting back her tears, “Watch over my children in the times where I cannot see them. Give them strength. Show them your infinite kindness.” When she finished with her morning prayers, she would return to her father’s chambers and see how he was fairing.

IX.

Sansa awoke to the sounds of birds chirping and the smell of roasted meat. She lifted her head from the grass and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She only saw the clansmen and Podrick around the fire. The evening had passed without incident.

Shella looked over, “Food.” She passed a charred fish skewered on a sharpened stick to Sansa. She took it but made no motion to try and eat. She had no appetite. If Tyrion didn’t return…did that mean?

“Where’s Lord Tyrion?”

“Gone? Dead?” A mountain clansman shook his head, “He told us to take you to Riverrun. We will ride soon and kill anyone in our way.”

Sansa stood, brushing dirt off her dress, “No.” They all stared at her. Even Podrick. Her words surprised even her. Fleeing into the woods felt like a lifetime ago…and that was when she only had one goal: To return home no matter the cost. Now, things were different. She was different. _Stronger_.

“Lord Tyrion did ask you to take me to Riverrun, that’s true…but, he walked into that – “She looked at Shella for support, “ _Cursed place_ on his own with only one sword to protect him.” Her eyes then went to Podrick, “We can’t leave him there. I do not know Lord Tyrion well, but I do know that he would not leave any of us behind. He would find a way.”

Shella stood, thumped a hand to her chest, and nodded at Sansa. “I go.”

The rest joined, lifting their weapons in the air, and looking to Sansa as if she were their leader.

Sansa felt a rush of adrenaline.

“I am not a warrior like you.” She said, speaking plainly, “But, I listened to you all. I know how important it is to remain unseen when you’re in the mountains…we must find a way to be unseen now…and find a way into Harrenhall and then find Lord Tyrion.”

“And weapons.” A clansman said, looking at his friends, “We need more steel.”

Sansa couldn’t argue with that.

She looked at the young, shy squire, “Podrick, I will need to borrow your cloak.”

X.

It was near evening when they finally approached Harrenhall. Shella muttered something that sounded like a prayer and then fell into silence. The garrison was sparse. They had witnessed several large units leaving the castle, but Sansa had assumed they would return. They didn’t. She could hear the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the gentle noises of horses, and the low murmur of voices as men spoke among one another. She clung Podrick’s cloak around her body a little tighter, hoping to conceal her face and body from anyone who might try to look.

“Who’re you then?” A Lannister solider stopped them, his breath reeked of ale. Sansa’s heart fell into her stomach. And then she saw the man’s face – the man she _killed_ – and her body froze on the spot. Podrick was sputtering and stuttering but she could not hear him over the loud rush in her head.

She could hardly _breathe_.

“It’s that way.” The solider said, pointing his spear in the direction he gave. Shella shoved her forward and she was able to move, but her eyes fell to the floor. The group shuffled and moved unnoticed the ruined castle and two of the clansmen broke away when no one was looking. Sansa stayed with Shella and Podrick.

No one said a word until they reached Widow’s Tower.

“Under here?” Shella asked and Podrick nodded. She looked to Sansa for confirmation.

“If Tyrion is a prisoner, this is the first place to look.” Sansa whispered, “He might be somewhere else since he’s highborn. We’d have to keep looking if he’s not in there.”

Shella nodded. She pushed the door open and Sansa and Podrick headed to the stables. Sansa, slightly recovered, took the time to look around once more. She saw the bodies hanging and felt the pinprick of tears behind her eyes. She blinked them back. It reminded her too strongly of the way Joffrey treated her fathers’ corpse. _‘But Lord Tyrion forced them to take it down and said he’d return the bones to Winterfell.’_ She never thanked him for that.

Sansa and Podrick remained in the shadows of the stables, their bodies crouched low, concealing them from anyone who might pass by with a torch. Sansa counted the seconds as they went by and hoped that Shella would be alright. The woman was uneducated and filthy, but she was the first to stand when Sansa announced her plan. ‘ _You thought Joffrey was the most handsome man in the whole Seven Kingdoms and yet he was a monster. Shella – if anyone else were to see her – would see a savage…but she’s a warrior.’_ Sansa thought about this for a moment, _‘Arya would like her’._

Shella’s voice suddenly spoke beside them, “No half-man.”

Sansa felt her body fill with dread. They could not search the whole castle. It would take too much time. She shut her eyes, contemplating for a moment, in the darkness.

“Are you three _trying_ to get killed?” Her eyes snapped open at the familiar voice of Bronn.

She lifted her head and looked over at the other stable pen where Shella was hiding. Bronn was beside her, looking a little beaten, but very-much alive. She could not remember a time when she ever felt happy to see a sellsword.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be halfway to Riverrun by now.” He asked, his perceptive eyes on Sansa’s face.

“We c-c-ame to g-g-et Lord Tyrion.” Podrick peeked his head up and met Bronn’s gaze.

“Well,” Bronn rubbed his chin, “Finding a virgin in a whore-house is more likely than this half-brained plan of yours working without all of us getting killed.”

Sansa felt her face flush, “You don’t even _know_ our plan.” She hissed at him.

“Relax, milady – “Bronn flashed a dangerous smile, “I know where they’re keeping him, and I know a way out of here.” He lifted his wrists, showing off his manacles, “Just gotta get these things off first.”

It was oddly comforting having Bronn along. Perhaps that was because Sansa could rely on him to talk his way out of any alternations – unlike Podrick – who often bit his own tongue. Bronn signaled for them to move as the guards changed and they hurried across the training yard and down toward the smithy. Sansa noticed that she could no longer hear the working of metal.

“It seems your friends were already here.” Bronn whispered, peering his head into the adjoining armory, and then leading the way into the smithy.

A blacksmith was on the ground and Sansa was about to gasp in horror but then she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest. They _had_ listened to her. Before journeying into Harrenhall, Sansa warned them that they were outnumbered and that these knights would have steel armor and swords. Just like the Knights of the Vale who they hated so much. ‘ _If you must fight – don’t kill anyone. We can’t risk someone finding us.’_ Even as she gave them this instruction, she assumed they’d be too wild and bloodthirsty to listen to her.

But, they did.

Sansa watched as Shella broke the manacles from Bronn’s wrists. He rubbed the skin and smiled, “Much better.”

XI.

Tyrion stared up at the stone ceiling. He could hear the wind howling through the cracks and the men eating below. Gregor – the man was as dumb as this very stone tower. How could he think imprisoning him would be a good idea? Perhaps he just wanted a back-up in case the war went south.

Robb Stark had won every battle so far. Did his father really think he could defeat him at Riverrun? And what was the _point_? Robb wanted vengeance for his father. Joffrey was _dead_. The vengeance wasn’t by his own hand, but it was done. What did Tywin want? Tyrion wondered that the most. Could his father simply not put aside his pride?

He thought about Sansa. How close was she to Riverrun? Would she reach it before his father’s army? Was she well?

There was a scuffle outside the door and Tyrion sat up abruptly, searching with his eyes around the room for something to defend himself with. Of course, there was _nothing_. This was no more than a glorified cell with a bed.

The door swung open, “Sleep well, _milord_?”

“Bronn?!”

“We’ve got little time. The others are waiting.” Bronn pulled his sword from the guard’s chest.

“Others?!” Tyrion scrambled off the bed, “Who?!”

Bronn grinned, “Wait and see.”

XI.

Sansa did not like this adjustment to the plan. It involved her and the others leaving with horses and supplies while Bronn went – on his own – to rescue Tyrion. As much as Tyrion trusted him, Sansa did _not_. He cared only for coin. If someone came by with a better offer…then what? What if they were caught again? She worried her lower lip between her teeth.

They had returned to their campsite and Sansa busied herself with sewing a tear in her dress. If she didn’t do something with her hands, then she might have gone mad with the waiting.

Her head lifted as she heard rustling, and her companions readied their new weapons stolen from the armory…

Bronn emerged with Tyrion at his side, “Back in one piece, as promised, _my lady_.”

“Half-man!” The clansmen shouted and circled around him, grinning and patting him and Bronn on the back, and then they started passing the wineskin along. It was several long moments until they broke apart and left Tyrion standing on his own.

He stared at Sansa, the fire pit the only thing separating their gazes, and Sansa bowed her head a little.

“I’m glad you’re well, Lord Tyrion.”

“It seems I’m in your debt once more, Lady Stark.” He spoke softly, amidst the fire crackling and the joyful conversation of their companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was actually originally going to have Sansa be captured by Tywin, but then I was like - I dunno if that makes sense since Jamie's been released (like what purpose would Tywin have there? And I also - Sansa's been captured enough lmao). Then I was like "well, they've been traveling a lot - whose to say Tywin is even still there?" We've done quite the time-hop (told you so) and we're somewhere in Storm of Swords territory now. I'm not sure if Gregor Clegane took Harrenhall in the TV show only - I lowkey couldn't remember >_> And I had been bouncing between the show's wiki and the book. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you ALL for your comments and support! As you can see - Sansa is learning by watching/listening. ;) And without creepy Littlefinger. I'm so glad you're enjoying this! I wonder what our duo is gonna do now that they know Riverrun isn't a safe option!!! Can anyone guess? heeheh


	5. Chapter 5

He waited until morning to fill everyone in on what happened at Harrenhall. He did not want to ruin the celebratory tone of the evening and of their victory after they had risked their lives to rescue him. After _Sansa_ had risked her safety.

“My father’s army is marching on Riverrun. Gregor had left to join him...and based on how Gregor was speaking, it seems that my father intends this to be the final battle between himself and Robb Stark.” Tyrion explained, his face serious, “They say Stannis is gathering his forces and most assume he’s going to head North – likely to try and crush the Lannister and Stark armies. But I doubt it.”

Bronn frowned, “Why not? Our good King seems the ambitious type.”

Tyrion shook his head, “Why would he go up against _two_ armies? No. It’s more likely that he’ll march, wait and see who the victor is, and then tell them to bend the knee. If they don’t then he’ll go on the offensive. He’s a trained and respected commander – his army will be well-provisioned and equipped – while whoever he attacks will likely be haggard from the siege.”

Bronn looked at their group – the highborn lass, the scrappy clansmen, and then to Tyrion. “I have a feeling that you’ve got another one of your bright ideas.”

Tyrion looked at Sansa. He promised that he’d get her home. It was just going to take longer than he had hoped.

“I do, but first, I have a question for Lady Stark.”

Her Tully blue eyes met his own.

“Do you still wish to travel with us?” He asked, because her answer would clarify his next course of action.

She was quiet for a moment, and then her voice was as clear as the dawn, “Yes.”

“Very well. Then we head for Casterly Rock.” Tyrion met their confused stares, “It is the only safe place for us. If we try to return to the Vale, the gracious Lady Arryn would throw me and Bronn out the Moon Door.” Bronn nodded at those words, pursing his lips slightly. “The Crownlands, The Reach, and the Riverland’s are a war-zone. We could try to find my father or Robb Stark – but the risk is too high. I don’t trust my father not to take Lady Sansa prisoner now that Jaime is free.”

“What?” Sansa didn’t try to hide the shock in her voice.

“Yes, Gregor let that little detail slip as well.” Tyrion rubbed his jaw, “It seems that your mother released him in the hopes that she could trade him for your freedom. She believes you’re still in the capital.” He couldn’t blame the woman for her desperation. She was clever, it was true, but her loyalty was with her family. That was the Tully-way. _Family, Duty, Honor._

“But, why would your father want **_me_** as a prisoner?”

Tyrion didn’t say anything for a long moment. It was long enough that he could see the annoyance on Sansa’s face – the slight clench to her jaw, the line between her brows. He could tell she was biting back asking the question again.

He did not want to give her this news.

“Lady Sansa…” He swallowed thickly, “If Robb were to fall in battle, Winterfell would be yours.”

He watched her as she repressed her natural reaction. Her lips parted and she blinked furiously before looking away.

“What _exactly_ do you mean, Lord Tyrion?” Her words were frosted. She kept her gaze on the far horizon.

“Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell. I’m sorry...” He could not bear to tell her the truth. That the castle had been raided and her brothers burned alive. Had she not suffered enough?

Tyrion’s heart broke for her. For this woman – made of ice and steel – of courtesy and flowers. He watched, unable to help or comfort, as she absorbed the information and then politely excused herself to go and get some water from the river. Shella – her self-proclaimed shield-maiden – followed her without a word.

The camp fell into silence.

Bronn took a swig of his wineskin and then chose to break the solemn attitude, “That went well.”

XIII.

She sat numbly on the horses’ saddle as they made the journey to Casterly Rock. Sansa wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. Bran and Rickon were _gone_. Arya was _gone_. Lady was _gone_. Her father was _gone_. They had all been taken. Who was left? Her mother, Robb, and her bastard brother Jon – leagues away at the Wall.

She could not find comfort in prayer. Each time she closed her eyes to pray, her stomach would clench, and anger would fill her body. She wanted to scream, to throw rocks, and cry out in frustration. Yet, that would _do_ nothing. That would _solve_ nothing.

Tyrion promised to return her to Winterfell. But what was the point? Winterfell was being held by a traitor. If she lost her mother and Robb in the war…then _what_? Where would she go? She had her Aunt Lysa, but she barely knew her. She knew – if she asked – Tyrion would arrange for her to be taken there.

A fortnight passed – uneventful – but Sansa doubted she would even react if a band of brigands came down upon them. She went through the motions. She ate little and slept less. And she could feel the concerned gaze of Tyrion Lannister upon her each night. She wondered if he blamed himself. If his father wasn’t fighting Robb – then maybe Robb would have been in Winterfell.

Then again, maybe Robb would have kept fighting no matter what…to achieve some justice for their father’s murder.

She nibbled at the chunk of dried salted meat, stolen from Harrenhall’s storeroom, and stared into nothingness. Sansa paused – suddenly aware that the attention was not on _her_. She looked around, seeing that her companions were circled around one of the clansmen, who was lying prone on the ground with a sheen of sweat on his brow.

When had someone fallen ill?! The sight of it shocked her into standing. She set her food down and approached, realizing that half the group was gone, and it was only herself, Shella, and two other clansmen – not including the sick man. Her brows knit in concentration as she recalled Tyrion speaking to Bronn about seeking out another inn.

“What’s wrong?”

Shella looked at her, her dirtied face was filled with sorrow. Sansa felt her heart tug in sympathy. Savages or no – these men (and Shella) had risked their lives for her. They stayed beside her and guard her when she slept.

“Bite.” Shella said, lifting the man’s pant leg to reveal an inflamed and red puncture. He groaned and tossed his head back. Sansa realized that she did not know his name. He was dying…and she did not know his _name_.

She knelt beside him and smoothed her skirts, “Get me some water.” She instructed, her voice crisp, and Shella hurried off without a question. When she returned, Sansa dipped a cloth into the cool river water and pat the man’s brow. He winced.

“What is his name?” Sansa asked, continuing to dampen his brow. The man had a thick red beard and she thought maybe his eyes were brown – but she couldn’t recall. She knew he carried an axe and sometimes she saw him looking at Shella.

“Utar.” Shella answered.

Sansa nodded, passing the cloth to Shella, “Keep touching his brow with this…and if you can, wet his lips, too.” Utar groaned. Sansa did not think he could hear her.

Shella stared at Sansa, but followed her instructions nonetheless, “You healer woman?”

Sansa thought about that, then shook her head, “No.” She thought of the old woman and her cottage. “I learned a little.”

She did not know if she could recognize the herbs that Agatha showed her. It felt like a lifetime ago. But she had to try. Even if Utar was doomed to die here, then she could at least try to make it peaceful. She had seen too many gruesome deaths. Sansa lifted her skirts and walked down to the riverbank. Using her skirt like a makeshift basket and she collected what she could remember. There was an ivy that was called Nymeria… _something_. Nymeria’s Ivy? Nymeria’s Root? She shook her head. It didn’t matter if she remembered the name. All that mattered is what it _did_. She knew that if she mixed that with an ale, then it would numb the skin.

By the time she returned, Tyrion, Podrick, and Bronn had returned, too.

“Lady Stark – what are you--?” Tyrion’s words trailed off as she dumped the various herbs on to the ground near their firepit. Sansa dropped to her knees, her fingers working quickly to separate the herbs into piles. She was well-aware of Tyrion and Bronn staring at her.

“She healer.” Shella provided, helpful as always.

“That won’t be necessary, we found an inn, we can take him there and call for the village physician.”

“If there is one, you mean.” Bronn said. “And how do you suppose we get him to the inn, eh? We don’t have a cart and I don’t think **_you_** can carry him.”

Sansa knew they kept talking – bantering – as they always did. But her mind was focused on her task. She took the ivy and could hear the old Agatha’s voice in her mind – clear as day. She used stones to grind the ivy, and eventually, just as her hands were beginning to redden – she saw the green powder against the flat stone. She swept it into the palm of her hand.

“Bronn, give me your wineskin, please.”

Bronn looked offended and impressed, “So, now you’ll drink with us, _milady_?” He gave it up without another quip. Sansa smelled it, was pleased to discover it _was_ ale and not wine, and she crouched beside Utar and poured a little ale into her hand.

“H-hey!”

Tyrion grabbed Bronn’s pant leg to stop him from snatching the wineskin back from Sansa. Bronn grumbled something about wasting good, brown ale, and crossed his arms over his chest. Sansa looked to Shella for support and the other woman nodded, pressing the damp cloth to her companion’s face. Sansa pressed her palm to the bite-mark and Utar let out a shrill cry, his eyes opening for a moment and then his head fell back onto the grass. Sansa kept her hand pressed on his leg, her heart loud in her chest, and fear causing sweat to slide down her spine. Did she hurt more than she helped?

Tyrion touched her shoulder. “Lady Sansa, what did you do?”

She gave him an uncertain look, “It’s supposed to numb the pain.” Then she looked to her other collection of herbs by the fire, “The woman who helped us after Blackwater showed me.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth, “She taught me about something else…a drink that’s supposed to draw poison out…but I can’t – “A short, frustrated sigh left her lips. “I can’t remember it.”

Utar’s eyes fluttered open. Sansa released the pressure on his leg and watched as the ale and herb mixture dripped down onto the grass. The bite mark was still red and inflamed, but Utar was awake. His eyes searched the sky and then fell upon Shella’s face, “I canna feel my leg. The fire…it’s _gone_?”

Shella looked over at Sansa and then to Utar, “She helped.”

Utar sat up and looked at Sansa and Tyrion. He opened his mouth to speak but his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted back onto the grass.

I.

Utar died that evening.

And it _was_ peaceful. A small mercy in an otherwise cruel, terrible world.

II.

She tossed back and forth on her bedroll. Her body had grown used to sleeping on the lumpy ground, but that was not what kept her awake. The conversations outside her tent had stopped and she could only hear the soft snoring of her companions and the occasional snap of the fire.

Annoyed, restless, and anxious for a reason she could not understand – she climbed out from her tent.

“Oh!” Tyrion was surprised, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No.” She shook her head and Tyrion stopped himself from admiring the way the firelight bounced off the auburn waves of her hair. In this light, she looked like a wildling princess. Men would fall on their swords to have even a passing glance – now wait – _when_ did he find Sansa Stark even remotely attractive? It was her strength, he supposed. Her kindness. And she continued to surprise him. She remained by Utar’s side until his breathing had slowed to a stop. When he asked her why, she replied; ‘ _He is no Knight, but he protected us all the same…and I did not even know his name until today.’_

She settled beside him with her knees drawn to her chest – another surprise – and he could feel the warmth emanating from her. He passed her the wineskin, expecting a refusal, but she took it.

“It’s wine, this time.” He said before she took a sip.

He watched her lips pucker and then she coughed, “It’s very sweet!”

Tyrion accepted the wineskin back, “I admit, I have a bit of a sweet tooth.” He smiled at her and was surprised to find…well…it wasn’t a smile on her face, but there was a softness to her gaze. They fell into a companionable silence. He swallowed another deep drink and looked up at the starlight. He thought about telling her some stories. Age of Heroes, maybe? He knew all the good ones. He could tell her of gallant knights and heroic feats of men. The conquests of Aegon Targaryen, the magnificent dragons – did she ever see the skulls in the keep? Did they frighten her? Maybe he should tell her about the mountain clansmen that they traveled with. She was closest to Shella, who was a member of the Stone Crows, but there was also two from the Moon Brothers that traveled with them. It was just a theory, but he believed that one reason why Shella behaved (as well as one could) was _because of Sansa_. It was like a mother hen watching over a baby chick. And Utar – he had been of the Bloodied Hands – a small clan. Would it make her happy or sad to know of him? Of his life before he joined Tyrion and Bronn?

He thought of all this and more – but she spoke first.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I’m…sorry?” He watched her expression as she rested her chin on her knees. She was so open, soft. He knew there was iron underneath but right now – Gods Above – she was beautiful. ‘ _How much wine did I drink?’_

“Your father – my brother – they’re fighting a war without end, and I thought maybe you might blame yourself for my brother’s deaths.” She explained, her voice like velvet across his skin, “Because if they weren’t fighting, then my brother would be in Winterfell. If we got to Riverrun sooner, perhaps, we could have ended it all.” She shrugged, “But, the more I’ve thought about it…the more I am uncertain if we could have changed anything.”

She blinked back the sudden wetness in her eyes.

“I tried to help Utar, but it was too little, too late.”

“Sansa, what you did was _incredible_.” Tyrion spoke, his voice filled with intensity and urgency. He had to let her know that she was amazing and strong and selfless. “You eased someone’s pain out of the goodness of your own heart.”

Those words did pull a slight smile, but it was saddened. He felt as if he’d been cut.

“Yes, I know. But, in doing so, I realized how similar his situation was to ours.” Her smile faded away, “Even if we spoke to your father or found my brother – it might be too little, too late. A salve on a poisonous bite.” Her expression hardened and Tyrion felt his heart race. He could see her slipping behind the mask of cold courtesy once more. It pained him. She was no longer trapped in King’s Landing…she did not need to hide herself. “The only people I should blame are those responsible. The ones who hold their swords against the innocent. I blame Theon Greyjoy for the death of Bran and Rickon. Not you. You have been _kind_ Lord Tyrion. I trust that no matter what happens, my safety is assured as long as I am with you.”

He did not know what to say. So, he held out the wineskin.

She drank, made a face, and passed it back to him. He could see the slight color to her cheeks. Tyrion wondered what her laughter sounded like. He had never heard it. He wondered what she would look like running along the beaches of his home, and if she’d enjoy the library, or the sept. He took a drink of wine for courage.

“I think you will like Casterly Rock.” He said, “I mean – I hope you will.” He felt flustered. Him! Flustered! “I know it is not ideal. I promise to get you to Winterfell or wherever your brother is as soon as it’s possible – as soon as it’s safe to do so.”

Sansa looked at him, an errant strand of red hair caressed her flushed cheek, and he cleared his throat.

“You should get some rest, my lady.” He said, his words stiff. He could not – and would not – stand. He wasn’t about to embarrass himself. Sansa nodded and wordlessly stood and returned to her tent with a soft ‘ _goodnight’_.

Tyrion groaned and dropped his head into his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this one is kinda short? But ah well! YUP. WE GOING TO CASTERLY ROCK, YA'LL. And a note on Sansa and her herbalist skills (lol) - I really thought about what kind of skill that Sansa would pick up if she wasn't being like...groomed...by Littlefinger. She's definitely still going to be a player in the Game of Thrones, but something that I've always loved about Sansa is her compassion. She has a gentle heart! :( I love her.


	6. Chapter 6

III.

Tyrion mentioned that they would see Casterly Rock just as they crossed over a rocky hillside. Their horses moved slowly across the precarious terrain. Sansa did not think she could miss it. Her blue eyes lifted from the reins in her hands and she saw the large cliffside with a castle, seemingly, carved within it.

The Rock was _imposing_ , it was larger than Winterfell, and larger than the Red Keep. Sansa could not stop herself from staring as they approached. She could hear waves crashing along the shoreline and the cry of seagulls as they flew overhead. The air smelled of salt and sunshine. She heard Bronn let out a low whistle.

She tried to imagine all the halls, rooms, and caverns that the castle possibly contained – but she felt her imagination could not fully grasp it. She looked over to Tyrion, who was riding at the front, with Bronn and Podrick. He spent his childhood _here_. Winterfell seemed a child’s castle in comparison.

The Sunset Sea sparkled as if someone had tossed diamonds along the deep sea-green waters. She could see several small fishing boats rocking in the waves.

Her eyes widened in awe as they followed a gravel path down to the beach. They were forced to dismount and lead their horses along by the reins. Her boots sunk into the soft sand. She could feel the warmth against the worn leather of her shoes and she desperately wanted to know what it would feel like on her feet and between her toes. King’s Landing had nothing like _this_. She had seen fishermen and poor men in the waters of Blackwater Bay. The water of King’s Landing was darker and muddied. This place…it was rich in color and sound. Everything seemed to glitter with the sunlight.

She could imagine the water’s turning orange and pink with the sunrise. She could imagine Casterly Rock, baked in sunlight, turning gold. Even the banners of House Lannister – they did not frighten her as they used to. They snapped and flapped in the wind.

Her attention turned the boats in the sea and her stomach rumbled. This would be her first time having a _real_ meal in over a month. Something that wasn’t dried or caught and cooked on a stick.

It was warm, but not stuffy and smelly the way King’s Landing was. She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt on her tongue, and for a moment – she felt _freed_.

Perhaps it was the impressive defenses of the castle, ensuring her that she’d be protected, or maybe it was Tyrion’s promise to keep her safe and return her home. But, for the first time since she fled King’s Landing – she felt at ease. She felt like she was no longer on the run.

Her shoulders relaxed.

She looked down at her peasant’s dress and then looked at Tyrion, marching ahead, and wondered if he’d be able to find her some better clothes. Oh, how she _missed_ silk.

V.

Tyrion saw the shuffle of guardsmen as they approached. He distinctly heard someone yell for ‘Lady Lannister’ and the groaning of metal echoed as they began to open the gate.

“My Lord.” A guardsman bowed his head, his armor clanking, “We were not expecting you.” His brown eyes narrowed in the slit of his helmet as he looked at Tyion’s traveling companions.

“Yes, yes.” Tyrion waved him off, “No doubt you expected I was dead.” He gestured to himself, “I am very much alive and in need of a good shave.” He looked back at his companions, at Sansa’s flushed face, “The same can be said for my friends. We are all hungry and tired.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Let me see – let me …” Tyrion’s head peered around the soldier’s legs as he heard a familiar voice. His heart stopped in his chest.

“Tyrion!” She lifted her skirts and hurried toward him, “You’re alive!” His aunt dropped to her knees as he met her halfway across the portcullis. Her crimson skirt pooled out around her legs, the color of blood and she clutched him, protectively and furiously, against her chest. Tyrion blinked back tears. He did not think their reunion would hit him _this_ hard.

“You did not write.” She held him at arm’s length and gave him a once over. The beard, the haggard clothes, the scar along his face, the dirt – “ _You could not_.” She said, answering her own question. Her head shook, the ringlets of blonde hair framing her round face bounced as she did. Tyrion wondered if Casterly Rock had mourned when the news reached that he was pronounced dead at Blackwater.

He could not imagine his father mourning. But he could imagine his aunt Genna.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.

She stood, looking at his companions and raising a slim eyebrow at Sansa, but said nothing else.

“Come along, then.”

VI.

Sansa could hardly take it all in before she was pulled away by a servant. The entrance hall was grand, gold ornaments, and Lannister banners. It was lavish. She knew – _everyone knew_ – that the Lannister’s always paid their debts. Yet, she was never faced with their wealth so bluntly. It made her head spin.

Winterfell had been sparse, but warm with memories of her childhood. The stone walls and dark wooden pillars made her feel safe and looked-after.

King’s Landing was a bustle of activity, always, whether in the court or in the streets. The Red Keep held the shadows of madness. And her bedroom had been a prison with a featherbed.

She was drawn into a guest room and she stood, in shock, as the maids helped strip her of her clothes. The room was adorned with light blue, greys, and navy. To her right, a massive bed with four posts and a thick coverlet with little birds and flowers stitched against the gray. To her left, a small writing desk near the open windows. The salty breeze gently pushed the thin, lace curtains.

Sansa climbed into the copper tub, her bones turning to jelly as they touched the hot water, and she sighed in contentment. The maids helped her wash her hair and Sansa nearly moaned at the pleasure of soap running across her skin. It smelled of lavender. They combed her wet hair and helped her get into a fine dress. Sansa could not stop running her fingers over it. The dress was lilac, with small gems adoring her waist and neckline.

“Whose dress is this?” She asked, unable to stop herself from inquiring. It was too slim to be the Lannister woman’s who greeted them at the gate.

The maid looked at her, surprised that she could speak, and finished tying the laces at the back. “It’s one that Lady Hill grew out of last summer.”

 _Hill_? That was a bastard name. Sansa tucked away that piece of information.

She was escorted to the dining hall. Her stomached grumbled, reminding her, that all she had to eat that morning was hard bread and some berries that Shella had picked. A large cherrywood table was in the center of the room with a large golden candelabra burning above head. There were paintings, she noticed, along the walls. The first was a portrait of Tywin Lannister with a blonde woman beside him. Sansa could see some similarity, but the woman was too old to be Cersei, and Tywin was young in the portrait. _Their mother, then._ The next portrait was a landscape of the Westerlands. Another was a portrait of two children, wearing the gold and red colors of their house – Cersei and Jamie.

It did not escape her notice that there were no portraits of Tyrion hanging in this hall. If they were wealthy enough to commission portraits…then the fact that Tyrion _wasn’t_ here – it was deliberate.

“Lady Stark.” Tyrion’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She turned and met a clean-shaven and well-dressed Tyrion Lannister for the first time since they began this journey.

“My lord.” She bowed her head, took his offered hand and he led her to the table.

The blonde Lannister woman entered a few minutes after and she grinned, sitting across from Tyrion and Sansa. “I’m sorry, I did not have the chance to introduce myself. I am Genna Lannister.” She nodded her head toward Tyrion, “His aunt.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Sansa said, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“Genna, this is…” Tyrion looked at her, and Sansa could read his expression – he was wondering if it was safe to tell the truth. “Sansa Stark.”

Genna’s eyebrows rose, “They said she died.”

“They said a great many people died during the sacking of King’s Landing.” Tyrion sighed, “I must ask you to keep that information between us. I have promised Lady Stark that I would return her to her family…as soon as it was safe to do so. I do not want my father to know.”

“Because he’ll use her.” Genna guessed easily, “As long as he fights the King in the North.”

“Has there been any news?”

Genna frowned, “Tywin is sieging Riverrun. That’s all I’ve been told. We’ll be sending out supplies at the end of the week.” Podrick entered the room, his ears flushed red as everyone’s eyes fell upon him, “Where did the rest of your men go?” Genna asked after looking over the squire.

Tyrion rang the bell for the food and wine, “Sit down, Pod. You’ve earned it. Bronn went to find…” He glanced at Sansa, apparently choosing his words, “Company. The rest of my clansmen requested to see the armory, which I allowed. Some of them plan to return to the Vale…others I’ve given leave to go and harass any of Stannis’ forces in the Crownlands or Stormlands…” He shrugged, “It may be of little help, but they enjoy it. Anyone else who wishes to stay in my service can do so.”

Their conversation fell into silence as the food was carried out. Sansa’s mouth watered at the aromas wafted through the kitchens. She watched as Tyrion filled his goblet with a red wine. He offered the decanter to her, but she shook her head. “I will just have water.”

“Very well.”

The table fell into silence as the food was brought out.

The servant brought her a pitcher of water with slices of lemon and Sansa watched the droplets of water cascade down the pitchers’ side. It was the sweetest drink she ever tasted. They started with warm, brown bread and tiny, savory fish – cooked crisp and salty. An entire plate of clams and mussels with melted butter in a large gravy boat. Sansa felt she would faint from the richness, the saltiness, as it touched her tongue. The servants then carried out a plate of trout – one for each of them – wrapped in sizzling bacon and roasted mushrooms, and then a smaller plate of salad, with sweet grass and green beans.

Sansa was full by the time she finished the second course, but then she saw the plates of dessert and decided that she could try and make room for at least _one_ lemon cake. Tyrion helped himself to a slice of strawberry pie and Podrick was shoving a large pastry, smeared with jam into his mouth. Sansa slid a lemon cake onto her plate and tried to hide her smile.

It was all _so_ decadent. She would go to bed with a full stomach, her body resting in soft feathers instead of the hard, unforgiving ground. And tomorrow, she would come to the dining hall for breakfast, and she would sit with Tyrion or perhaps he could give her a tour of his home or they could go and stand on the beaches and…

She paused the train of thought and wiped a bit of sugar from her lower lip.

_How long would she stay here?_

VII.

When everyone else had gone to bed, Tyrion was awake, in the solar. There were letters to be answered and arrangements to be made. They had agreed that Sansa Stark would stay here as a guest. Sansa had chosen a name for herself: _Jonquil_. Jonquil Snow. She was in Tyrion’s company to help locate her father. It wasn’t much for a cover story, but it would have to do.

And as long as Tywin was on the battlefield, Casterly Rock was _his_.

He used a knife to break the seal of the letter, recognizing the solar flare of House Martell.

_Tyrion,_

_The sickly bird lives in the mountain and we will find no aid there. Our garden was once sprawling, but now, it is burnt – root and stem and the foxes are prowling. The lion crosses the river with a skinned man following him. The sun has traveled east…and if his light cannot shine in those dark mountains – then I will follow the sun and see what webs I can weave._

_A Friend_

He read the letter a few times, knowing that he’d need to burn it once he was done. A friend? He smirked. _Varys_. Of course. Who else would give him an encoded letter?

Sickly bird? The Arryns. That was easy to figure out. He had seen the boy and how he clung to his mother’s skirts (and _teat_ ). The garden…that was clearly the Tyrells. He knew how quickly their family fell into ruin after Margaery’s execution and their uprising against Stannis. _Foxes are prowling_. He frowned at that. He underlined the sentence and then continued.

The lion – _his father_ – crosses the river. Yes, he knew Tywin was in the Riverlands. That wasn’t news. But, the skinned man? He underlined that as well.

The sun has traveled east. He looked at the seal. What were the Martells planning? What was Varys planning? Varys was in Dorne, or at least nearby. Tyrion wasn’t going to risk sending a response but, Varys had _known_ he was alive. He wouldn’t have sent the letter if he wasn’t certain.

Tyrion folded the letter and tucked it into his doublet. He would examine it further once it was in his bedroom. Yet, as he shifted through supply reports, and letters, and checking the granary and the armory…he found his mind wandering. He poured another glass of rich Arbor wine.

His mind drifted to Sansa and he indulged the thought, as he sat alone in the solar, of how _pretty_ she looked this evening. He had grown so used to seeing her in the drab peasants’ dress with her hair frazzled from riding that he had _nearly_ forgotten how beautiful she was. Nearly. It was impossible to forget. He thought of how pleased her expression was as she bit into her lemon cake, how her eyes widened when they brought out the food, and he realized – with some concern – the sharpness of her cheekbones. She hadn’t eaten much since they received news of her brothers. It was a relief to see her fill her stomach and look dazed and comfortable as she was escorted to her room.

_I want to see her laugh and to see her smile – in earnest. I want her to be happy._

He thought back to their fireside chat. _“I trust that no matter what happens, my safety is assured as long as I am with you.”_ She said that. She **trusted** him. A Lannister always paid his debts and he owed Sansa Stark a large one. He would be rotting in Harrenhall if not for her.

If he could not return her to her family, then he would do everything in his power to ensure she stayed safe. Even if that meant they had to take a boat to Essos and live out their days on the beaches of Pentos. He would not allow her to become a pawn. For Stannis, his father, or _anyone else._ He finished his goblet and poured another one.

His head was swimming with wine by the time he left the solar. He pressed his palm against the familiar stones of his childhood home to steady himself as he walked to his room. He was two doors away from Sansa. She was asleep, he hoped, getting a nice, deep and restful sleep. She deserved it.

 _And maybe she will have time to mourn…to weep for her father and brothers…and all that was taken from her._ He rubbed his eyes and pushed open his door. He climbed into his bed, his muscles already rubbery from the drink, and he stared up at his ceiling. He thought about the dress she wore to dinner, the way it brought out the blue in her eyes and he _tried_ to ignore his cock. It was stiff against his breeches. He could not remember the last time he shared company with a woman. Maybe he should have joined Bronn to the whorehouse. Tyrion shifted, unlacing his breeches and kicking them off the bed. He sighed, taking himself into his hand. At least, he’d get some decent rest.

He shut his eyes and picked a woman at random. There was that whore in Flea Bottom who could do that _wicked_ thing with her tongue. He conjured up the image of her riding him, seeing her perky breasts bouncing, with her head tossed back. Tyrion grunted, pumping his hand, and then she moved, her back arching and pushing her chest into his face. He moved faster, feeling himself getting close, and he licked his lips. The woman in his fantasy changed position, her palms flat on his chest as she pushed him down onto the bed, and her face swam in his view. Her hair was red, like the golden leaves of autumn, and her eyes were bright blue. Her perfect lips parted as she cried out in ecstasy, _‘Yes, my lord!’_ Tyrion moaned as he finished, spilling his seed onto his stomach.

He was half-asleep when he realized that the whore from Flea Bottom, she was a _brunette_ , not a redhead.

VIII.

Sansa entered the dinning hall to find Genna Lannister and another girl sitting beside her. “Good Morning.” She said, always remembering to keep her pleasantries. She did not know if Tyrion and the others would join them.

“Good Morning, Jonquil.” Genna said, “This is Joy Hill. She’s been ever-so eager to meet you.”

The girl stood, she was nearly as tall as Sansa, though younger by a year or two. Her hair was blonde and laid flat against her head. There was a hint of sorrow in her brown eyes. Sansa wondered if that was just a trait among Bastards. Joy embraced her as if she were a sister and smiled, “I cannot wait to show you around! It gets lonely here.”

Sansa understood the feeling.

They ate soft boiled eggs and porridge and the cooks brought out a plate of sliced oranges and melons. If Sansa never saw a slice of dried meat again, she’d be thankful. Joy led the conversation during most of breakfast. She told Sansa about the different halls in the castle, the library and solar, and the caverns that held the mines. She was aware of Genna watching her, but she could not say why. Her actions showed that she cared deeply for Tyrion. She was risking herself – and others – by agreeing to keep her presence a secret.

“What’s the North like?” Joy asked, her eyes widened with curiosity.

Sansa stirred her spoon in her tea, “It’s…” She thought for the right word, “Different, but lovely in its own way. Northerners are…quieter…than most.”

“Is it true that wildlings will snatch your children if you go too close to the Wall?”

Genna snorted a laugh and then returned to cutting her sausages.

“Um. No.” Sansa sat up a little straighter, “The Wall protects us from Wildlings. They don’t dare cross it.”

Joy didn’t look convinced, but she moved on to her next question, “What do you do for fun?”

“Well, I like to sew. And there’s always riding…”

“Do you know how to play Cyvasse?”

Sansa shook her head. Joy’s expression lit up and she clasped her hands together, “I will teach you.”

At least she knew what she’d be doing for the rest of the day.

XV.

Sansa and Joy sat out on the balcony overlooking the beaches connected to the library. The Cyvasse board laid out between them. Joy took her time explaining everything, going into more detail than Sansa expected. She explained that she didn’t often have many people who would play with her.

The first few rounds were just to learn, and Sansa found herself smiling at Joy’s enthusiasm or her compliments, “Oh! You’re so good at this, Jonquil. That’s a good move to make.”

Sansa moved the ivory heavy horse to another spot and then asked, “Who taught you how to play?”

Joy’s brows furrowed as she considered her next move, “Uh…Tyrion.” She moved her elephant piece. “He gets lonely, too.”

Sansa thought of a bastard girl and a dwarf playing this game and her heart ached in her chest. “It seems to me that Lord Tyrion has many friends.”

Joy’s brown eyes met her own, “Are they truly friends if you cannot share your secrets with them?”

Sansa thought of Jeyne Poole, how they’d whisper with their heads pressed close together, giggling about boys and Knights and all things that young girls dream of. Jeyne had fancied her brother, Robb and sometimes they’d talk of being ‘ _true sisters_ ’ together.

“Jonquil?”

“Hm?” Sansa looked up from the board.

“You looked sad.”

Sansa quickly found a lie to cover herself - “I was just thinking of Lord Tyrion.” That answer seemed to please Joy, and she nodded with understanding, and then looked out across the balcony, to the sea. She opened her mouth to speak but then shut it and returned her attention to their game.

She slid her catapult across two spaces and grinned, “You best be careful, Jonquil. Your dragon is vulnerable.”

X.

Tyrion dipped his quill into the ink and began his letter –

_If word has not yet reached you – allow me to pen it in my own hand. I am alive. I did not die at the Blackwater and I will continue to manage Casterly Rock with Genna’s help during your absence._

Tyrion stared at the words. Cersei was missing. Jamie was missing and still technically a part of the Kingsguard unless Stannis removed his title. Casterly Rock belonged to him. The Lannister line lived on through him. Would his father be pleased? Or would he despair and try steal his birthright?

_You will have fresh supplies to you before weeks end._

_Your Son,_

_Tyrion Lannister_

He folded the letter and poured the wax onto the flap and he pressed the Lannister seal into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to get to the Rock :-) And yes, a cryptic letter! ohoho ~ and yes, the mature rating is slightly popping up here since Tyrion is being...well Tyrion lmao. I don't think he's put two-and-two together yet.


	7. Chapter 7

I.

Joy sat, content, with a book while Sansa lifted her arms and allowed the seamstress to measure her chest with a strip of ribbon. Sometimes, if Joy found something particularly interesting, she would speak up and tell Sansa. But mostly the room was quiet, save for the mumbling of the seamstress to her assistant.

Her days had fallen into a blissful routine. She spent her mornings with Joy and Genna at breakfast. Sometimes, Shella would join them. She traded her worn furs for Braavosi leather and kept three, fine daggers strapped across her chest. She still wore teeth in her hair, but at least she bathed _semi-regularly_. She spoke no oaths to Sansa, but Sansa knew the woman was _hers_ all the same. The wildness used to scare her. Now, things were different, and Sansa was thankful for her companionship and loyalty.

The afternoons were warm and balmy. If Joy didn’t have any lessons, then she and Sansa would sit on the balcony overlooking the sea and play Cyvasse until lunch time. Sansa had – in Joy’s opinion – gotten very good at it.

Some afternoons, Sansa would join other ladies in their sewing circles, but she often felt too restless to remain for long and listen to their gossiping. They believed she was a bastard girl and gave her certain _looks_ and Sansa knew that they talked about her when she was not there. A lifetime ago, that might have bothered her, but no more. They did not see their fathers’ head rotting on the battlements, they did not witness the destruction of a city, and feel the blow of a mail into their stomachs; they did not face bandits and hold a dying man’s hand. She would sew and listen to their gossip of hopeful marriages and dress colors and pretend that she was in Winterfell with Jeyne.

Sansa would watch soldiers leave the gates and wonder if her brother was still at Riverrun and if he lived. She so wished she could write him and tell him that she was safe and looked after. But, Genna advised against it.

“They shoot down ravens,” She said, picking berries from her salad, “And not even Lord Tyrion could protect you if the castle turned against us.”

In the evenings, she began taking her meal with Joy in her room, because Genna and Tyrion were entertaining guests and they could not have two bastard girls at the table. Joy might’ve been permitted, since her father was Tywin’s brother, but she felt it unfair if Sansa could not join her. So, they supped together in their rooms.

Joy had become her faithful companion just as Shella had. Joy was fascinated with everyone and _everything_. Even Sansa’s mountain clanswoman. Sansa could not decide if her curiosity was an endearing trait or a dangerous one. Still, she kept an eye on the young girl all the same.

Speaking of Lord Tyrion – Sansa hadn’t seen him in a full week. She counted the days in her head. She turned on the spot as the seamstress instructed her and gazed at her own reflection. Was he avoiding her? She frowned slightly. _No_. He was just busy with running the castle while his father was away. There was still a _war_. Even if Sansa could not see it anymore.

She thought of the burned homesteads on the journey to Casterly Rock.

And that thought, ultimately, led her to thinking of her brothers. She pressed down the emotion until it retreated deep into her heart.

“You’ll be as pretty as a summer’s eve.” The seamstress said with a click of her tongue.

“Prettier!” Joy said, a smile lighting up her entire face, “If it weren’t my name-day, Jonquil, I’d say you to be the most beautiful woman at the feast.”

II.

The feast had been Genna’s idea and planned long before Tyrion’s arrival. Tyrion did not have the heart to call it off when his little cousin’s face had brightened over the past few days. Sansa’s friendship – he knew – had eased the pain of her lonely days. Genna told him how they would speak to each other during breakfast, play Cyvasse during lunch and take dinner together. Joy was Sansa’s bright shadow.

“Joy’s younger…” Genna said, looking into her goblet, “But, even if she and Sansa were the same age – Sansa has that _look_ about her.”

Tyrion looked up from the supply list, “What _look_?” Nowadays, he avoided looking at Sansa too closely. It wasn’t difficult to avoid her. Casterly Rock was large, and he always had work to do.

Genna searched her mind for a moment, then finally settled on: “Queenly.”

“Well, she was going to be Joffrey’s queen.” He said, hurriedly, wishing to move away from the topic of Sansa. “Now, can we please return to the task at hand?”

It was going to be a long night.

III.

Sansa stepped into the room with Shella beside her. She saw a few lord and ladies give horrified glances, but Sansa ignored them. She placed a hand on Shella’s leathered arm – the woman would _never_ wear a dress. “I will be safe here, if you’d like to leave.” She offered, looking up at the taller woman. She knew that this party – even with its Lannister guards – was safer than anywhere else in Westeros right now.

“Shella eats first.” She said, smiling.

Sansa nodded and walked away to find the guest of honor. The entire hall thrummed with music and conversation. Glasses clinked together, guests laughed and jeered, and the air was heavy with the scent of the wildflowers adorned in golden vases. Sansa slipped through the crowds like water and let her instinct guide her. If she were the lady of the evening, where would she be? She found Joy at the dais, surrounded by guests.

Joy’s flaxen hair was curled around her face and shone in the candlelight. Her dress, Sansa had already seen, but it was vibrant and rich, the color molten gold. The hems of her sleeves were decorated with red lace and she wore a gold necklace, bearing a lion’s head, with rubies set for its eyes. It was her eighteenth name day and she was as radiant as the sun itself. Sansa felt her heart warm.

Joy surged forward, throwing her arms around Sansa’s neck, “I’ve asked them for lemon cakes.” She whispered into her ear, “Lord Tyrion mentioned you enjoyed them.”

She interlocked their hands and proudly, warmly, introduced ‘ _Jonquil’_ to her guests. Sansa remembered her courtesies. At some point, someone gave her a goblet filled with sour red wine. She liked it better than the sweet wine that she and Tyrion once shared while hiding in the Riverlands.

There were trays of assorted sweets on tables – from lemon cakes, to tarts (strawberry, blueberry, and peach), spiced honey biscuits and apple crisps. There was an abundance of wine. Sansa noticed that not a hand in the grand hall was empty. The music changed tempo and Joy encouraged Sansa to put down the goblet and join her in a dance. Sansa could not say _no_. It was her name day, after all.

_Let her have this day and many days after it. Let her never have to suffer in the ways that I have. Let her always have a home to return to, a family to love her, let her never see the monsters…_

It was a swirl of color and lights and heat as they danced. Their skirts swishing and billowing as they followed the steps. Sansa knew she messed up once or twice – but no one noticed. No one cared. Her hand slipped from Joy’s and she found herself in the arms of another partner. He was handsome, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, and he smiled as he spun her. She could hear Joy’s laughter – louder than the music – but then Sansa realized…it was not Joy who as laughing. It was _her_.

She changed partners again. Her chest felt light. Her feet felt like if they were floating on air. She made the circuit back to Joy, and finding her friend still smiling, and Sansa smiled back. They spun and spun and clapped their hands and changed partners again --

This time, a stout man with large white whiskers. Her heart stuttered in her chest. _Rodrik_? She missed a step and quickly apologized. The man was gracious and kind, his voice a deep baritone, his silver doublet had an embroidery of a purple unicorn. No. It was _not_ Rodrik. She regained her focus, put on a smile that did not reach her eyes, and finished the song.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks and felt her face, flushed and hot as it was, and she whispered to Joy that she would only be a moment – “I just need some air.” She grabbed a goblet of wine on her way out to the balcony.

V.

Tyrion enjoyed watching the sea churn under the moonlight. He could hear the waves crashing below. The salt air cleared his mind. He did not turn his head when he spoke, hearing the footsteps approaching, “I told you Bronn, I don’t dance and I’m not going to start _now_.”

“Really?” A female voice answered, and his heart thudded noisily in his chest, “That’s probably for the best. I imagine Joy wouldn’t be pleased if her cousin took all the attention.”

Tyrion turned and felt his mouth go dry. Joy was as radiant as the sun, but Sansa was as ethereal as the moon. Her dress was the dark blue of the ocean’s waters. He could see thin, gossamer lining that sparkled in the folds of her skirt. He could see tiny gems embroidered along the soft swell of her bosom. The moonlight soaked into her skin, illuminating the soft pink flush of her cheeks, and caressing the fly-away strands of red hair that floated around her face.

He simply stared at her for a moment and was unable to do anything else. He cleared his throat, “Ahem. You’re right. It would be wicked of me to steal her night.” He walked to the small table where he had left his wine decanter and poured himself another glass.

Sansa stepped forward and stood beside him, resting her elbows on the stone and staring out into the sea. Tyrion drank and peered at her from over the rim of his goblet. She looked _serene_. Serene and untouchable. Just like the moon out across the water. Men would die, drowning, to reach her.

“I saw someone today who looked like Rodrik Cassel.” She said, quietly, as if she were admitting to him a great secret.

Tyrion recalled the surly man that traveled with Catelyn Stark, “I don’t remember inviting him.”

Her lips quirked, but she did not smile. Very well. It would be a serious conversation then. “When was the last time you saw him?” He asked.

“Winterfell.” Her voice was wistful, filled with longing, and Tyrion clutched his silver goblet a little tighter.

“I swear to you – Lady Stark – “She lifted her hand and he stopped speaking.

“Lord Tyrion,” She faced him then, something soft and vulnerable in her expression, and it twisted his gut like a knife. “You are always so eager to remind me of your vows, why is that?” Her eyes were clear, blue, and perceptive. He thought about her question. He thought of Joffrey, and Cersei, and his father. He thought of the Kingsguard who harmed her and those who harmed her by turning a blind eye.

“Because of my family.” He said, sighing. _I do not want you to hate me…_ He added, silently. _So many already do because I am the despicable Imp and oh, it doesn’t cut like it used to. But, Gods, it would cut if it were you._

“I told you already, Lord Tyrion, I place blame only on those responsible.” Her gaze returned to the sea, “So, rest easy. I trust your word. If I never see Winterfell…then I will curse Theon and anyone else who took part in the betrayal of my House.”

Tyrion watched her expression and then finally said, “Are you enjoying yourself?” Bronn had mentioned he had seen her dancing and suggested – rather loudly – that Tyrion ought to get out there and dance with her before some high lord snatches her up.

She looked at him, “I am.” Her dress pooled around her body as she sank to his level and Tyrion felt his breathing hitch as she extended her hand. He felt the mirror of a lifetime ago when he had once extended his hand to her – while she knelt in the Red Keep with a white cloak covering her body. “Will you join me in returning to the hall?”

His lips found a smile and he held it, “No dancing?”

Sansa exhaled and it sounded _suspiciously_ like a chuckle, “No dancing.”

Tyrion did not stay in Sansa’s company for very long. Joy found her and looped their arms together, declaring that Sansa must have an honorable seat beside her at dinner, and pulled her away without any argument from either of them.

“It’s good that we did this, Tyrion.” Genna said when he joined her at the table. The plate in front of her was wafting with steam; a rich, bloody cut of lamb with a side of fiery Dornish peppers. “Winter is coming, isn’t that with the Starks always say? We will have to start our preparation soon. The granary, the preserves, all of it.”

“When did you become so practical?” He teased, feeling his mood lighten.

“I had to manage this place before you got here.” She replied with a small smirk, but then her smile faded. Her eyes were on Sansa and Joy, and Tyrion had the strangest feeling that she knew something, and she wasn’t telling him, “Let them enjoy their songs of summer…”

When the dancing started again, Tyrion stayed away from it, but he did watch Sansa.

And little did he know – but his Aunt Genna was watching him.

VI.

Sansa’s head felt as if it were still spinning and she couldn’t stop stumbling. She leaned heavily into the stone wall, her face flushed, her chest heavy and breathless. She felt – rather than walked – her way and sank down onto the marble floor in one of the sitting rooms. A room meant for entertaining guests. Her bleary eyes looked up at a portrait of Tywin Lannister. She glared at it and pulled her knees to her chest.

She had meant to find her way back to her rooms now that the party was winding down. The sky had gone purple with the approaching sunrise and her feet ached.

“This is where you’ve run off to?” Sansa looked behind her, an unfamiliar voice, but a familiar face. It was one of the men she danced with. His tunic was cream colored, and his smile was warm – but Sansa didn’t trust _anyone_. Especially not highborn lords alone with _bastard_ women. She smiled prettily and said some excuse about finding some water. Her knees felt wobbly and weak.

She went over her options. If he accosted her – she could scream. Shella was _never_ far. But there was a chance that her loyal shield maiden had drank more ale than anyone else and might be in a corridor sleeping it off.

She could kick him. Hard. Shella told her that a good kick to the groin could make any man spit blood.

Sansa glanced around for anything that was in reaching distance for a weapon. A book? Maybe. She looked at the nearby wooden chair. Maybe she could scoot over to it and pull herself upright – with some support she might be able to move and get out of the room.

Yet, as she was thinking this through, the man with dark colored hair didn’t move from the doorway. He was still _talking_.

“It was rather bold of him, don’t you think? With Stannis declaring everyone a traitor these days.” He shrugged.

Sansa blinked, scolding herself for not listening, but quickly deciding to play along, “I agree, my lord.”

“My father thinks it’s only a matter of time before Lord Tywin declares himself King.” The man looked a little interested in this prospect, but not much. Sansa looked at the colors of his clothes. What house could he be from? His words caught up to her and Sansa frowned.

“King of the Rock?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, “Like the early days. Before Aegon.” He finally entered the room and Sansa decided on her plan. “The Seven Kingdoms with Seven Kings. Or Queens. I suppose.”

He walked towards her.

She braced herself.

He walked right by her and to one of the bookshelves, discussing the history of Westeros as if she didn’t _know_ it. Sansa rolled her eyes, thankful that he could not see her. _He thinks you’re a bastard, probably without an education, I will bide my time and then leave._

“I’m sorry, Jonquil, I never introduced myself – “He laughed, his eyes crinkled when he smiled, “I am Harrold Serrett.” He bowed his head toward her.

“Pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

He walked towards her again and Sansa, still, prepared for the worst. But – he simply sat beside her on the marble floor, resuming his story about Aegon’s conquest, and Sansa feigned interested and hoped Shella or someone would turn up soon.

She waited for a lull in the story and intercepted the moment Harrold took a breath, “Excuse me, my lord, I am dreadfully tired. Perhaps we could resume this conversation…not on the floor? Another day?”

Harrold Serrett – to Sansa’s surprise – flushed a bright red crimson. “My apologies, Jonquil, I was only trying to make you more comfortable.” He stood, offered her his hand, and Sansa let him lead her back to her chambers.

“I will see you tomorrow night.” He said, standing at her door. Sansa quickly buried her confused expression behind a timid smile and nodded at him.

Sansa learned the next morning that feasts and celebrations, in the Westerlands, do not last for just _one evening._

VII.

Tyrion took some time in between his other tasks, his confusing feelings about Sansa Stark, to re-read the letter from Varys.

_Our garden was once sprawling, but now, it is burnt – root and stem and the foxes are prowling._

Tyrion rubbed his eyes at he looked over the map, the sigils of each great house – old and new – and the only one he could find with a fox was House Florent. That – he had suspected as much – but hoped for alternatives. Because Stannis was, to his knowledge, still married to Seylse Florent. Which mean if the Florents took the Reach…then Stannis would have the support and wealth that Renly once had. Maybe slightly weakened due to in-fighting, but powerful, nonetheless.

Tyrion kept this information to himself. He would do what he could to inform and inquire about the Reach, but his resources were spread thin.

_The lion crosses the river with a skinned man following him._

This section gave Tyrion the most pause because the only house with a flayed man was Bolton. Bolton was a Northern house. Did that mean that they were plotting against his father? Did Robb Stark have an assassination planned?

No, that wouldn’t be in style with the noble Starks. They would not cloak and dagger someone even if his father deserved it. Tyrion thought of his brother. Were Bolton men after him? Even if not to kill him, just to recapture him. How many men could Robb spare or had he done this before the siege?

Tyrion rubbed his temples. Then checked the most cryptic of lines…

_The sun has traveled east…and if his light cannot shine in those dark mountains – then I will follow the sun and see what webs I can weave._

East. The only news of Essos was that Daenerys Targaryen was on a rampage against slavers. She freed Mereen, they said. Would she travel west to claim her throne? What forces could she have? What allies? He couldn’t imagine the Dothraki would travel across the sea – everyone knew the horse lords believed the water was poison.

And what – exactly – did Varys hope that Tyrion could do with this information? Perhaps it was a warning and nothing more. That even though Stannis sits on the throne, the Game still wages on.

“Lord Tyrion?” He looked up, seeing Sansa – radiant, beautiful as always – standing in the doorway of the library.

“Lady...” He caught himself, aware of the castle guests, “– Jonquil. How are you?”

She grimaced, “I may have had too much wine last night.” She admitted, entering the room, with her flowing satin dress trailing behind her. He could not help but smile.

“A sign of a good evening, then.”

“Hm. I’m not so sure.” She spared him a glance and then her eyes went to the tomes and tomes of books, the library was easily the size of Winterfell’s feasting hall and the kitchen, too. She and Joy had gotten lost exploring the rows of shelved books. History, poetry, accounting books of the great houses and even – to Sansa’s astonishment – books about herbs and spices. She borrowed it and hid it under her pillow in her room.

“Is _everything_ at Casterly Rock so grandiose and magnificent?” She asked, sounding almost exasperated.

Tyrion looked down at himself, “I’m not.” A little self-deprecating humor never hurt.

“That’s not what they say.” Sansa circled around the table and looked at the various parchment and maps strewn about. Tyrion had the foresight to hide Vary’s letter underneath a nearby book.

“Who?” Tyrion felt a smile pull at his lips, “Has someone been besmirching my terrible name and showering me with compliments? I _do_ have a reputation to uphold and I won’t stand for some do-gooder running it.”

“They say you’re clever and loyal, good to your friends, and no craven.” She looked at him, “Some even call you brave.”

“And _who_ told you this?”

“The same person who is telling you now.”

Tyrion felt taller than the Mountain in that moment, with Sansa standing beside him, her palms flat against the wooden table and she leaned against it. He knew he must look a fool – because he knew he was staring at her. He developed a terrible habit of staring at her lately. It really must be remedied. And soon.

“Will I see you at the feast tonight?”

“Of course.” He realized his voice was strained and if Sansa noticed – she didn’t show it. He watched her leave the library and wondered what the _hell_ just happened.

VIII.

Harrold had the first dance with her that evening and Joy _winked_ at her. Her dress was dark forest green and a golden cinch designed to look like laurels had been fashioned around her waist. As they danced, he told her that he was the fourth son, and therefore, decided to avoid going to war with his brothers and father in the Riverlands. He liked history, he said. He had a brown mare at home named ‘Majesty’ and a little sister named Lorena.

He was handsome, she guessed, but Sansa had long laid to rest any dreams of romance. This highborn boy likely saw her as just a pretty bastard girl. He might even hope to get her into his bed. He would never know the _real_ her. No one could.

 _Except Tyrion_.

Sansa looked around the room and did not see him sitting at the table. She was careful with her wine this evening. No one noticed when she broke away from the crowd. Not even Harrold, who was talking in a circle with other lords.

She understood, as she walked, that she _wanted_ to see Tyrion tonight. She did not want to talk to Harrold and listen about history, or his brothers. She did not want to talk to Joy – let her enjoy these three days to the fullest. They were _her_ days.

Sansa could not find him on the balcony, so she circled back inside and decided to try for his usual spots. His study, the library, and if all else failed – his room. She had never entered his room before. The thought of it made her stomach feel funny.

The corridors were illuminated by rows and rows of candlelight. Sansa stopped when she heard voices.

“We’re not going to tell her.” It was Tyrion’s voice. “Not _tonight_.” He sounded distraught.

“She has a right to know, doesn’t she?” Genna’s voice. It sounded protective.

Sansa’s brow furrowed and she leaned against the stone wall, wishing she could melt into the shadows and become invisible. Thankfully, the voices weren’t coming any closer. Were they talking about Joy?

“She does. I’ll grant you that. But we don’t need to spoil everyone’s good time with _this_.” She could imagine Tyrion’s frown. If he had wine, she knew he’d be pouring a glass. He always reached for it during stressful conversations.

Or any conversation, really.

“We can at least wait until the celebration is over. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”

“Tyrion, how deeply do you care for her?”

Sansa’s heart was hammering in her ears. Were they talking about Joy? Or her? Or someone else? She couldn’t piece it together. She strained to hear Tyrion’s answer, unsure of _why_ it even mattered, and tried to crush down her disappointment when she heard nothing but footsteps.

She took a deep breath to collect herself and then started walking back to the party, following the sound of laughter and music, though it no longer touched her soul as it once had.

What were Tyrion and Genna hiding? And more importantly – _why_ and from _whom_?

IX.

Tyrion found Sansa in the gardens – dressed in the deep green of the rich, vibrant green land of the Reach. Her hair fashioned into a loose, fishtail braid and it hung limp across her shoulder. She sat – alone – on one of the stone benches. It had taken him nearly an hour to find her.

“You’ve left young Harrold inquiring of your whereabouts.” He said, as conversationally as he could. He approached slowly in the hope that he would not startle her. His eyes caught movement in the shadow and saw Shella, sitting nearby, watching him. She lifted her mug in greeting and patted her daggers in warning.

“I’m sure he will find another lowborn girl to dance with.” Sansa said, her hands in in her lap.

“Many were jealous that you gave him the first dance.” Tyrion said. He wondered if she knew how many lords and serving boys had stared at her. Tyrion found himself staring quite a bit too and well…that was different. He had _different_ reasons for staring.

“Is that so?” She tilted her head, her gaze still skyward, her body immovable as the stone statues that decorated the garden.

“Oh yes.” Tyrion sat beside her, wanting for the hundredth time, to take her hand. Yet, he was afraid. “Every time I went to refill my glass, I heard of Jonquil, and how Harrold was a bastard for keeping her company all night.”

“I don’t know if I could stomach another night of dancing.” Sansa admitted, “with him or _anyone_.”

“Are you unwell?”

“No but thank you for your concern.” She looked down at her hands and Tyrion felt like he had taken three steps back. Where was the woman who complimented him this morning? The woman who dressed like the night sky and took his hand? She had donned her armor once more and she was impervious.

Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek and felt the weight of the letter inside his doublet. There was so much he wanted to tell her and so much he couldn’t.

“Stannis Baratheon crossed the Twins. He’s heading North.” He kept his voice low, knowing and trusting that Sansa would be equally as careful.

“I do not know anything about war, Lord Tyrion. So, you’ll forgive me if my question seems ignorant…” She paused, “He is ignoring the fighting in the Riverlands?”

“I wouldn’t say ignoring.” Tyrion rubbed his chin. “He’s _prioritizing_. The Greyjoys are a nuisance and he can’t have them trying to claim other territories. He takes Winterfell back and then he’s in charge of who gets it.”

“If Robb Stark declares his loyalty to the crown…”

“Then our merciful King Stannis will return his ancestral home, no doubt. He’s always been a pragmatic man.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“And if Robb Stark dies?” Her question laid heavy on the rose-perfumed air of the garden.

Tyrion thought of the solemn, dark haired man serving in the Night’s Watch and wondered if Sansa was thinking of him, too.

“Lord Tyrion?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my rooms?”

“As you wish.”

This time – he offered her his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your lovely comments and support <3 I am honestly winging this LOL. I pretty much sit down and write the chapter with some very vague notes and ideas ;D


	8. Chapter 8

I.

Blood ran thick in the air. She lowered herself into the grass and followed the thick bramble of thorns and leaves to another clearing. The stench of men filled her nostrils and she shook her head, circling back, and finding something else.

She refused to leave this marshy and wet land. It was _hers_. It belonged to her Pack. She pushed to the edge, not knowing this rocky ground, or recognizing the faint smell of salt in the air.

She howled to the night sky.

II.

Jaime couldn’t forget how _miserable_ King’s Landing was. No one paid him any attention and why would they? An unwashed beard, his hair hung limp around his face, and he felt useless. No. He _was_ useless. He could not join his father in the siege of Riverrun. He couldn’t protect anyone.

The smell of the stump plagued him. It mocked him.

What was the point of coming to King’s Landing? Catelyn Stark believed her daughter was still here and it was foolish. He tried to tell Brienne a thousand times.

_“Stannis took the city. He would’ve told the Starks if Sansa lived. She’s valuable.”_

Brienne refused to turn back.

The city had changed little since Stannis claimed the throne. He saw Stannis’ sigil, a stag surrounded by a burning heart, and Jaime caught a few sermons being preached about the Red God and the Long Night. He scowled each time he heard their voices cut through the noise of the city.

Men and their Gods. What good were they? He couldn’t see the appeal. When he had his sword…he’d say that was the only god. A man and his blade – for good or ill. He glanced at Brienne and her dour expression. She told him that she’d report back to Catelyn no matter the cost. She was a stubborn wench. 

The Red Keep loomed over him.

And a Red Priestess greeted them at the gate.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Ser Jaime.” Her voice was charming and seductive, her body swathed in a dark crimson robe. She motioned for them to follow her, instructing the guards to tend to their horses. Her dark eyes went to Brienne, “And you as well, Lady of Tarth. Come.”

“An interesting welcome party, wouldn’t you say?” He asked Brienne.

“I don’t like it.” Brienne frowned, climbing from her horse, and her hand went to the hilt of her sword. Jaime flexed his fingers.

They had no choice but to follow the red woman into the keep. Stannis’ banners flapped against the stone… the fire surrounding the red heart of his sigil looked nearly alive. The priestess did not sit on the throne, but she stood beside it and gazed lovingly at the braziers that were lit around the room. They were alone – save for the guard who stood beside the priestess.

Jaime wanted this whole ordeal to be finished. There was nothing for him here. No Cersei. No family. No Kingsguard. What and who was he now? Lord of Casterly Rock? His stomach turned at the idea.

“My King does not know you’re here.” She said, “Otherwise, he’d have you thrown in the dungeon.” This – she said to Jaime – and her lips lifted into a semblance of a smile. “We all must keep secrets in the war to come and we all must do our duty. But I do not need to tell you that.”

“What war?” Jaime nearly laughed, “Your king _won_.”

She looked at him if he were but a small child, “This is not the true war. The true war is between the light and the darkness, the endless cold and endless night, and only Azhor Ahai reborn can save us.” The priestess shook her head and touched her finger to the throne. Jaime saw a bright, ruby colored droplet of blood on her fingertip as she lifted it from the blade. “This all means nothing if we do not save the Realm.”

Her eyes found Brienne, “I’ve seen your face in my dreams. Both of you. You stand together with a sword forged from ice.”

Now Jaime knew, for certain, that these heretics were just _crazy_. He glanced over to Brienne again to read her expression, but all he saw was the clench of her jaw.

“My lady, I am here for one reason and one reason only. To collect Lady Sansa Stark and return her to her mother. If she is being held in the keep, then I request…” Brienne’s voice fell away as the red priestess descended from the steps and she came to stand in front of the lady knight. The priestess was smaller, lithe, but everything about her was dark and red. She stared up at Brienne.

“Lady Stark is not here.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed, “She perished in the siege?”

“That is what men believe.” Again, that wisp of a smile, “I could _show_ you where she is.”

“Then bring us to her.” Jaime said, exasperated by this woman and her coy smiles.

“I cannot.” Her shoulders lifted in a languid shrug, “I can only show you.” She lifted her pale hand, the golden rings on her finger glinted in the firelight, and she offered her hand to Brienne. Jaime wanted to grab her arm and drag her back to their horses.

To tell her to go to Riverrun, protect the lady she was sworn to, and give up on this quest to find the Stark girls.

They were gone. It would be better if Catelyn just believed that and moved on.

“Brienne. Don’t bother. She – and the rest of her lot – are clearly deranged.” Jaime said, hoping to break the spell that the red woman had tossed over the large woman, “She doesn’t know where Sansa is. She died in the siege just like everyone else!” _Except Joffery…and his new Tyrell wife…and half the court. They were all burned…_

He looked at the throne and for a moment – he saw the Mad King slumped on the steps with blood pooling around him.

“Brienne.” He turned to her, but Brienne’s eyes were on the woman’s face. Her expression was grim, but he could see that those dark blue eyes were on the precipice of deciding. He wanted to shake her. To remind her that Stannis wasn’t just sitting on a throne of swords, he was sitting on a throne of ashes and shadow. If her story was true, Renly was killed by a shadow that looked like Stannis. She would have nothing to gain from working with the mysterious priestess.

“It’s all a murmurs tale, Brienne! It’s smoke and mirrors.” Jaime knew he sounded half-mad and a little desperate. Her eyes flicked over to him and took in his expression. Her nostrils flared as she exhaled.

“Maybe you’re right, Ser Jaime.” She said, at last, and Jaime felt his shoulders relax. “But, I made an oath that I would do everything in my power to return Sansa to her family. I would be breaking that oath if I did not try.”

And with her voice echoing in the empty throne room, Brienne took the priestess’s hand.

III.

Joy wiggled her toes in the sand. Her face upturned to the sun as she smiled.

“Radiant as ever, my lady.” Her smile grew impossibly wide as she turned her head and met the charming gaze of Ser Harrold. She had thought he fancied Jonquil, but then he had pulled her aside, into a darkened alcove at the final night of feasting and proclaimed that he was dancing with Jonquil to try and get close to **her**. His kisses tasted of wine and honey.

That evening she had lifted her skirts and clung to him in a wild, passionate reverence.

“You’re leaving today, aren’t you?” She asked, trying not to pout as he pulled her into his arms. She carded her fingers through his thick, brown curls and felt her stomach flutter at the closeness of their bodies.

“I will return as soon as I can.” He promised, kissing her twice, “Once my father is back from Riverrun, I will ask for his blessing and you’ll be Lady Serrett of Silverhill.”

“You’re _fourth_ in line.” Joy poked his chest.

“Technically, I’m _fifth_ , since my eldest brother has a son.” He smiled and she felt the happiness flow through her body.

“How is Jonquil? You said she’s been quiet lately.”

Joy frowned, the buoyancy of her happiness faltering for a moment as she felt sympathy for her friend, “I _do_ wish she’d tell me what was on her mind.” She said, “When I asked, she just tells me she worries for those fighting in the war. _Everyone’s_ fighting.”

Harrold cupped her face in his hands, “The war will be over soon.”

“You sound so certain.”

He shrugged, “Tywin has the better army. It makes sense that he would win.” He made it sound like defeat was impossible.

Joy did not want to talk of war. She tangled her fingers in his hair and leaned up for a kiss. She wanted this. She wanted _him_. For the next hundred – no, a thousand – evenings. It was all she wanted.

IV.

Genna steepled her fingers in front of her face, elbows resting on the desk, as a weight settled over her like a thick woolen blanket.

Men were dense. She knew _that_. Her own husband was an imbecile. Tywin and Tyrion – she considered them to be some of the cleverest men alive. But they each had their weak point. For Tywin, it was his pride. His legacy. He _cared_ about the Lannister name. He would never allow their name to be dragged through the mud or fade into obscurity like so many other houses.

And Tyrion? He had a weakness for wine and women and outcasts. His mute squire was proof enough of that. He could’ve dismissed him at any time, but he never did. There was another weak point. One that she didn’t believe her nephew would admit and it was the Stark girl. Pretty, but cold. That was just the way of Northern girls.

She suggested to young Harrold that he seek out Sansa and dance with her. He was everything a young woman would like. Tall, dark-haired, handsome, and from a good, noble house. Yet, Sansa was _disinterested_. Each time Harrold approached her, Genna would watch as her expression glazed over into passive-listening and her eyes searched the room. _For someone else._

Any other woman and Genna would’ve been glad. But, the Stark girl was full of ice and thorns, and there would be no happy endings for them. And Genna did not want to see her nephew hurt.

_“Tyrion, how deeply do you care for her?” She asked, watching Tyrion’s face turn to a grimace, the harsh line of his scar in the torchlight made him look nearly frightening. That look had given her all she needed to know. That brief flash of pain – of longing._

_‘Oh, you idiot.’ She wanted to say as she watched him walk away. ‘You damn, damn fool.’_

Yet, it seemed Tyrion was content to live in denial of his feelings. He avoided breakfast with them and threw himself into work that easily could have been handled by the castle steward. He kept his secrets close to his chest. Everyone did.

She thought of her brother and sighed, leaning back in her chair. She was torn. She knew with a few clever moves, she could help Tyrion realize the depth of his own emotions, but where would that lead him? And Sansa? What feelings did she harbor? Genna could not figure that out. The Stark girl was too guarded. Did she care for Tyrion? Did she feel for him, as a woman does a man? Or was it just… _loneliness_ that drew her to him?

 _Tywin_. He would never agree to any sort of involvement with the Starks. No. Not unless it served to further their family and their hold on the Realm. She could imagine him _forcing_ a marriage between the two, since Sansa was the heir, but only if Robb Stark was dead. He wouldn’t tie their families together without a guarantee of power.

She stared at the unopened letter in front of her bearing the flaming heart wax seal.

V.

“I served many Kings.” Varys said, staring up at the last Targaryen, “And now - Stannis Baratheon sits on the throne.”

“We’ve heard.” She replied, her dress the color of twilight, fashioned to look like scales. “And you do not serve him?”

“Gods, no.” He frowned, “He’s a just man, I believe, but there is nothing so frightening as a _just_ man. Stannis Baratheon will break before he bends, and he will not relinquish his claim without a fight. But he lacks the love of the people. They fear him.” He looked around the room, Unsullied who chose to follow her, and freed slaves who chose to follow her. “You rejected Quentyn’s hand, but Dorne still wishes for an alliance. I’ve come as an envoy to those terms.” He knew the boy was still here and had heard _concerning_ little messages regarding his own belief that he could tame a dragon. Varys hoped the boy would not be so foolish. His father expected him to return to Dorne _with_ Daenerys. She would bring the dragons. Not him.

Daenerys motioned with a hand for him to continue. He reached into his sleeve and every Unsullied grabbed their spear and pointed it at him. Varys felt a trickle of sweat roll down his temple.

“Stand down.” Daenerys said in Valyrian. The spears shifted back to their sides.

Varys knew the words, but he held the letter in his hands all the same and spoke clearly with the heat of Mereen clawing at his back, “Vengeance. Justice. Fire and blood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter this time & with side characters! Whew boy! It's getting spicy.


	9. Chapter 9

I.

“She gave me something for you.” Brienne said, looking conflicted even as she said it, and Jaime didn’t even want to know. He didn’t want to _ask_.

He sourly took the box from Brienne and shoved it into his traveling bag.

II.

Joy tossed another armful of dresses onto her bed, “Harry will have new dresses made for me, once I’m his lady.”

Sansa raised a delicate red brow, ‘ _Harry, now, is it?’_ She watched as her friend spoke incessantly of her betrothal – one that had not been announced or even sanctioned by the families. Yet, Sansa saw an echo of herself in Joy’s endless chatter. The girl she once was…believing in good men and happy endings.

“Green and blue.” She said, sorting the colors, tossing a glance ever-so-often at Sansa who sat in the corner, “Blue looks best on you. Gray would too, I bet, but...” She shook her head, the blonde curls bouncing. “You will be one of my ladies at the wedding, I hope?”

Sansa smiled pleasantly and nodded. She was still working up the courage to have the next difficult conversation.

Joy let out a loud sigh, “Oh _good_.” She pulled open one of the drawers in her dresser and started tossing jewelry on the bed, speaking of her wedding, and pausing with a dreamy look on her face.

“Joy,” Sansa did not want to hurt her or ruin her happiness, but Sansa _knew_ this world. She would be doing a disservice to her friend if she did not speak up now while there was still time, even though she knew that this betrothal would never be announced. Even if Harrold did love her, their differences in class would prevent it.

“How well do you know him?”

Joy blushed, “Well enough.”

Sansa felt her own cheeks warm and then she quickly shook her head, “I’m not speaking about that.” Joy had been tipsy off wine and crawled into Sansa’s bed, giggling, and speaking in hushed tones. She fell asleep with a smile on her face that Sansa could barely see in the moonlight. The presence of another body in her bed made her think of Arya and how they’d share a cot when they were little. A pang of longing for her family swept so hard through her stomach that she didn’t fall asleep until sunrise.

“You met him.” Joy said, crossing her arms, “He’s kind and he doesn’t care that he’s a lord. He loves me and he wants to be with me.”

“I know.” Sansa said as gently as she could, watching Joy as if she were a frightened rabbit in a clearing, ready to bolt at any moment. “I do not doubt his love for you.” _A lie, but a necessary one. I thought Joffrey kind and loving once, too._

“Then why are you so worried, Jonquil?” The woman crossed the threshold of space between them and gathered Sansa’s hands between her own. She squeezed them. “I could ask Harrold to have you stay with us…if you’re worried about being alone in Casterly Rock.”

Blue eyes searched brown ones, finding only softness – no bitterness, no cold – the world had hurt Joy, yes, but she blossomed from it. She found friendships, she found a family, and she found love.

 _And what of you?_ A voice in her mind beckoned, _what have you found?_

“I don’t wish to see you hurt.” Sansa said, at last, “I was betrothed…and the man was…he…” Sansa squeezed tighter and met Joy’s unwavering, wet gaze. “He was a monster.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.” The words almost locked in her throat. _He was burned alive by his uncle._ She wanted to say, _they say he was given up as an offering to a new, terrible God that Stannis follows. He and half his court and his new bride. All of them. Their ashes spread across King’s Landing._

The silence weighed over them before Joy spoke, “Do you see only monsters now?”

Sansa wanted to shake her – to pull her to the window and tell her that out there – men were killing, pillaging, and up North – men were raping and reaving her home, and that the only thing that truly protected them wasn’t the walls around this castle, but the man who held it. _Tyrion_. Of course, she saw monsters because that’s what made the world. This place had become a small reprieve of peace, but it did not wash out the ugliness. It did not hide the truth. Monsters wore crowns, and white cloaks, and silk dresses.

A brief rap on the door separated them before Sansa could answer Joy.

It was Bronn – of all people – “His lordship askin’ for you, my lady.” Bronn looked less than pleased that he was the one delivering the message, but Sansa understood. Bronn was one of the very few the he trusted.

III.

Tyrion had held this letter in his hand for the past two days. He waited until after Joy’s name day celebrations were over. Then gave an extra day for Sansa to recuperate. Genna had asked him to tell her right away – but he didn’t have the stomach for it. He made her swear herself to secrecy.

And then she had the nerve to ask him; _“How deeply do you care for her?”_

The question plagued him into the late hours. He would do anything for her – he realized. Oath or no oath. He would brave the Smoking Seas, he would barter with corrupt merchants in Braavos, he would crawl across the Red Waste. There was no end to his own suffering that he’d endure if it meant that Sansa Stark was safe and cared for.

He finally had an answer if his aunt Genna ever dared to ask him again.

He would say: _“I care more than I should.”_

Bronn came swaggering in with Sansa trailing behind, her dress a blushing pink that should have clashed with her radiant hair, but instead, only served to liven the flush of her cheeks and mouth. Bronn winked at him, bowed _sarcastically_ to Sansa, and said, “I’ll watch the door.”

“My lady, please.” He gestured to the chair and Sansa sunk into it. Her face was a mask of composure and elegance. Her hands folded neatly on her lap and her back set straight.

“I have news from the Riverlands.” Tyrion began, unfolding the letter, “From my own network, though I’m sure the news would’ve reached us eventually.” He cleared his throat and glanced up at her expression. Nothing shifted. _She’s preparing for the worst._ He thought, and then, he reached his hand out and offered her the letter.

Sansa did not hesitate. She took the letter from his light grasp and began reading. He watched her lips as they parted, her blue eyes quickly scanning the page as she read, as she drank in every word – words of hope. _Of life._

“They survived the siege.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Your father is retreating?”

“He’s returning to Casterly Rock, which, is another headache I’ll have to deal with.” Tyrion felt his lips quirk into a smile, “But, we have time to prepare.”

Her brow furrowed, “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why come here?” Sansa did not release the letter, “Why not go to another castle that’s closer to the Riverlands, gather his forces, and try again? Riverrun will be defenseless without Robb’s host if they’re returning home. It says it clearly here – the Young Wolf’s forces have begun to organize for their journey back to the North to defend it from the Greyjoy offense. Riverrun has fallen to Edmure Tully.” Sansa frowned, “And you told me that Stannis had passed the Twins. Why would Robb leave Riverrun if Stannis was presumably handling the Greyjoy threat?”

 _She is entirely too perceptive for her age… she’ll wind up at a war table if she’s not careful._ Tyrion did not want to lie to her, especially not where her family was concerned, “Stannis isn’t going to Winterfell. News arrived that he went to White Harbor and was collecting ships to go to the Wall…to sail for Eastwatch by the Sea.”

“The Wall? Why?”

“There’s to be another war there, between the Night’s Watch and the King Beyond the Wall – leader of the wildlings.”

Tyrion watched her expression shift, as she calculated and processed this new information, likely more information than any other highborn girl received about the coming and goings of this great war. The Realm was shattered and bleeding. Tyrion didn’t know what – or who - would save it.

“Perhaps my father saw the senselessness in this war.” Tyrion said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew how hollow they sounded. False. No one had issued an order for peace and his father wouldn’t walk away with an injured pride. Robb had beaten him at every battle, a green boy with a wolf. Even the siege – which Tywin was well-prepared and previsioned for- the retreat didn’t make sense. Still, he tried to soothe Sansa’s worries.

“Robb Stark has no reason to march south any longer. King’s Landing belongs to Stannis. If he reclaims Winterfell, drives out the Greyjoys, then he’s at a much more advantageous position should Stannis try to attack him for being a traitor or anyone else. It’s always easier to fight on your own territory.”

Sansa was silent for a moment, her eyelashes kissing her cheekbones as she stared down at the letter in her lap.

“What do you think he’s doing?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

_He’s planning something…or he’s already planned it and is waiting for the players to get in position._

“I don’t know.” Tyrion sighed, tearing his gaze away from the redhaired woman and to the sounds of the crashing waves, “There’s rumors that he’s going to declare himself King, rumors that he’s going to get revenge for the deaths of his grandchildren…but, if I know my father, and I – unfortunately – do. I know that he’ll do whatever puts him in the most powerful position. He’ll never be Hand of the King for Stannis Baratheon and losing battles to your brother makes him appear weak.” Tyrion paused, mulling that fact over, “I don’t think this war is over.”

The gulls cried as they flew past the open window, seeking the dead fish that the men were throwing into the sea below.

When Sansa spoke, her voice was fierce yet quiet, “My family will not share the same fate as House Reyne.”

Tyrion met her gaze, “No.” He agreed, “You won’t.”

V.

_A man will come with a hand in black,_

_With him - a bounty of sapphires,_

_And an oath which shall be broken._

Tyrion, decided, as he looked over the letter Genna had given him – written by the Red Priestess, Melisandre – that he hated riddles.

VI.

“So, you’ve never _laid_ with anyone.” Joy sat crossed legged on Sansa’s bed, “Not even once?”

“No!” Sansa flushed, “I don’t know why you keep wanting to talk about this!” It was hard to hold conversation with Joy after her meeting with Tyrion that afternoon. All she could think about was her family, heading North, and how soon she’d be able to see them. She had floated the idea to Tyrion that they make for Riverrun before Robb’s forces left, but he said the risk was too high. Too many Lannister scouts and patrols. Tyrion promised that once word reached him that Winterfell was reclaimed by Robb, then they’d be on the first wagon out of Casterly Rock.

As much as Sansa had desire to write a letter, Tyrion still feared anyone knowing that she was in Casterly Rock. Even if she was _safe_ – this was still a Lannister stronghold. And who would believe her, even if she wrote it of her own hand? She had written letters before…with Cersei whispering in her ear.

No. Her family was too mistrustful of the Lannisters. They would just need to keep waiting.

“It’s nice to see you smile,” Joy said, bringing Sansa back to her senses, “And this conversation topic is – so far – the one that makes you the most flustered.”

“You’re – “Sansa searched for the right word and tilted up her face as she said it, “Vulgar.”

“I’m an adult now.”

“I am older than you are.” Sansa heard her haughty tone. She could have been saying the same sentence to Arya…or Bran.

The thought of her little brother suddenly sobered her, and Joy immediately noticed.

“I do wish you’d tell me what was on your mind.” Joy spoke softly, running her hand across the coverlet on Sansa’s bed. The linen had been changed and her room was filled with soft creams and deep indigo.

“It’s nothing.” Sansa shook her head, trying to find the right words to encompass her change in mood, “I just miss having a family.”

Joy nodded. She understood, Sansa realized, what it must feel like to have no one else. Her mother and father were gone, and her extended family may have raised her…but she was still alone. No father would kiss her brow and promise to find her a worthy husband. No mother would send away the maids so she could braid her hair. No siblings would chase her and throw snowballs at her. Sansa suddenly felt awful for her own selfishness. At least her family was still alive. Robb, her mother, and wherever Arya was.

And Jon…Jon was her family, too. He was going to have to fight in a war, just like Robb, and who would know if he died? Who would mourn him?

“Sometimes, we make our own families.” Joy said, her fingers pulling at a thread, “and I would be honored to call you sister...someday…if you’d like.”

A prickly heat burned at the back of Sansa’s eyes and she turned away so Joy wouldn’t see.

She inhaled deeply, then said, “Joy?”

“Hm?”

Sansa clutched her hands into fist, “Please do not hate me for deceiving you.” She turned and faced Joy, her round face, flushed cheeks, and curled blonde hair. She saw that the solemn, lonely girl who taught her how to play Cyvasse was gone.

“My name is not Jonquil Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another plot-moving chapter ;) I got a lot of moving pieces to CLICK together LOL


	10. Chapter 10

I.

With the prospect of his father returning, Tyrion had to make arrangements to move Sansa. He could not just disguise her. Too many had seen Jonquil Snow at Joy’s name day feast, too many servants and cooks knew her, and the guards, too. Tyrion thought they’d have more time. He thought his father would have kept fighting in the Riverlands, continued to push his forces North, until Robb Stark either fell in battle or declared defeat.

Sansa’s questions ate at him. They mirrored his own questions. _Why_ would his father retreat? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t put any stock in the stable boy’s rumors that Tywin was going to declare himself King of the Rock. What would be the purpose of _that_? Shatter the Realm so the dragon queen could come and stitch it all together again with fire and blood? No. Tyrion believed his father was smarter than that.

They had less than a month until his father arrived.

And they moved Sansa in the quiet of the night as the guards were shifting their rotation.

II.

Sansa sat on her new bed and stared at the open wardrobe, filled with clothes from Joy, and she tried to remove the taste of loneliness from her mouth. The apartments that Tyrion had arranged for her were fit for a lady. She had a cook and a maid and Shella was given her own room (though, Sansa suspected that the woman preferred to sleep outside the tavern down the street). An open balcony displayed the warm, ruddy rooftops of Lannisport and the sparkling Sunset Sea that glowed orange during the sunrise. It was lovely. Tyrion Lannister was generous, and she found herself thinking of his redeeming qualities more than anything else lately. His kindness, his bravery, his loyalty, and his intellect. Other people called him a drunk. Sansa knew that Tyrion liked his wine, but didn’t _every other_ lord?

Her fingers stopped working the needlework in her lap.

“You’re early.” She said, unable to stop the smile in her voice.

The dresses in her wardrobe shifted and Tyrion brushed a ribbon away from his dark, golden hair.

“Am I?” Tyrion looked around the room, shrugged, and then made his way to the small table on her balcony. He picked up the flagon, noticed how full it was, and poured himself a glass. “I am The Imp. My appetite is _insatiable_. No one will find it odd that I visited a brothel this early in the morning.”

Sansa set her needlework aside and stood, brushing her skirts down and smoothing any crease in the fabric. “We’re still going riding today?”

“Yes.” Tyrion said, smiling against the rim of his chalice and Sansa felt a new, strange feeling somewhere below her ribs. She opened the chest near the foot of her bed and pulled out a grey traveling cloak – her only souvenir of King’s Landing and the only article of clothing that she owned that was _hers_. She stitched up the places where brambles and thorns had caught the fabric when she fled. She had spent early mornings while traveling with Tyrion, her skirts pulled up to her knees, dipping the cloak into the cold, rushing river to try and wash the stains of mud and dirt from it.

Tyrion watched her as she drew it over her shoulders, her fingers nimbly tying the string at her throat.

“You’ll need a warmer cloak soon.” He said quietly and looked… _surprised_ …as soon as the words left his lips.

Sansa pulled the hood over her auburn hair with her eyes meeting his, “I know.” She can feel her father’s words at the back of her throat.

_Winter is coming._

III.

Tyrion watched as Sansa climbed into the saddle with Bronn’s help. Shella was already seated on her own horse – a magnificent grey beast that she claimed to have won during a game of dice. He knew that was a lie. Shella did not know _how_ to play dice. It was far more likely that Shella slit the man’s throat and stole the horse. The walls of this town did not contain her savagery. Tyrion was thankful that she protected Sansa with fierce loyalty. He just hoped she didn’t get caught or get herself killed. There were only a handful of people that Tyrion would trust with Sansa Starks’ life and they were going on this ride with him today.

Sansa sat on a chestnut colored mare with a white diamond on its snout. Her hair curled around her face and she looked at the trail ahead with such openness that it made his heart hurt. Gods. She was beautiful. And he knew he was a wicked man for thinking about it.

Tyrion picked up the reins of his horse, sitting in his custom-saddle, and nodded to the others. For several minutes, it was only the sounds of seagulls calling out, the crash of waves, and the distant calling of sailors as they came into the port. He and Sansa rode side by side in a comfortable trot.

Bronn and Shella started bickering behind them. Tyrion once called them an old married couple and Bronn threatened to break his nose for it.

“How’s Joy?”

“Lonely.” Tyrion answered honestly, “I told her that we found a relative for you to stay with and you had to leave on the next ship. She hasn’t spoken to me much since.”

He glanced at her, reading her expression, and found that her lips had only slightly moved into the smallest of frowns.

“She was a good friend to me.” Sansa said, “She wanted me to be in her wedding.”

He shook his head. That would never happen. Even if it broke his heart to know it. It was simple. All Joy wanted was to be loved and to have a _place_ in this world. She couldn’t find that among her father’s family, so she wanted to have a family of her own and a name of her own. She wanted to no longer be branded as bastard. Tyrion understood more than anyone how that might feel.

They fell into silence once more with Shella and Bronn still arguing a few paces behind.

“We can go this way.” Tyrion said, directing his steed, “It’s a nice spot for lunch.”

IV.

Bronn leaned against the tree, watching Tyrion and Sansa set up for their little picnic. He pushed his knife along the side of his apple and ate the slice off the edge.

“If they start fuckin’, I’m leaving. I don’t need to see that.” He said conversationally to his companion.

Shella glared up at him from her spot on the grass, “Sansa is _lady_.”

“Plenty of ladies fuck. I know. I’ve fucked ‘em.” Bronn shrugged at her.

“He.” Shella pointed to Tyrion, “Has not given her maiden offering. No offering?” She spat on the ground. “No _fucking_.”

“What in the seven hells are you on about?”

“He.” She pointed to Tyrion again, this time with more force, “Must prove he is worthy. Some men fight and offer their strength. Some give weapon. No offering?—”

“I get it, I get it.” Bronn waved a hand at her. “So, what? You mountain clansmen only fuck if you’re paid for it?”

“No.” Shella rolled her eyes, “We fuck if man is worthy. Otherwise…” She smiled, “We cut off their cocks.”

Bronn took a pointed step away from the clanswoman.

V.

Sansa watched the ships as they left the port. From here, they were a decent distance from Casterly Rock, but it still looked as impressive as ever. Tyrion had brought a modest lunch to share with cheeses and fruits. The fruits were tart and refreshing and the cheese were hard and savory. She could recall the days on their journey to the Westerlands when she was thankful for anything that wasn’t crisped fish and berries they foraged. She could see him glancing at her from the corner of her eye.

The fresh, salty air made her feel bold, “What are you thinking about?”

She looked at him. Was that a _blush_? Tyrion looked away, at his wineskin, and he sighed. The sound was soft, and it made that strange, fluttering feeling appear in her stomach again.

“How peaceful this all is.” He said, before his head tilted back and he finished the last of the wine.

She folded her legs underneath her, her body leaning towards his, “Compared to King’s Landing?”

“Yes.” He paused, “How are you feeling?”

The abrupt change in topic stunned her. “I’m well. You’ve been most generous, and my living arrangements are comfortable.”

“ _Sansa_ …” He looked at her with those impossibly green eyes, and she realized how rare it was that he used her name. Her eyelids fluttered. “I’ve been honest with you. Do me a courtesy and be honest as well.”

“What do you want me to say?” She tore her gaze away from him, “You’ve been most kind, Lord Tyrion, and that is the truth. I know that I am well protected, that you will return me to my family as soon as you are able, and that is all I can ask for.”

“If I told you we could leave for Winterfell tomorrow, would you?”

Her eyes snapped back to him and she saw him flinch at her gaze, “ _No_. Because Robb isn’t at Winterfell yet. We’d risk ourselves being raided by a Greyjoy ship by land or sea. It would be a foolish decision to leave for Winterfell tomorrow.”

“Sansa, I want to help you.”

“You have!”

“I want—” He seemed to struggle with finding the words and tore a hand through his hair. The curls clung to his short fingers and fell in front of his forehead. A tense energy laid a blanket over them and Sansa realized that she was clutching her skirts, leaning towards him, her chest heavy with some foreign emotion. _What? What? What could it be?_

“Never mind.” His shoulders drooped ever-so-slightly. “We should return before my absence is noticed.”

VI.

It was not long before he fell into a routine with Lady Stark. He could not visit the brothel that hid away her apartment every single day. But, at the same time, he _wanted_ to see her as much as he could. He was careful. He wouldn’t just visit this one brothel. He’d visit two. Then a tavern. He’d go haggle with the shops. No one questioned if he arrived early the next morning as long as his work was done.

Tyrion began to take his suppers with Lady Stark more than his Aunt Genna or alone in his solar. He brought her books from the library and their conversations began to turn away from war and politics. They talked of stories and myths, of history, and then – slowly – of their families.

Tyrion did not talk about Cersei or his father.

Sansa did not talk about Theon.

She told him of Bran’s climbing, of Arya’s nicknames (“Horseface”), of riding around Winterfell, and the ancient and haunting Godswood.

He told her about Jamie’s bravery, of making sandcastles, of seeing the dragon skulls for the first time, and his dreams – _once_ \- of being a maester.

The warm breeze floated through the open balcony and Tyrion wiped his lips with a cloth.

“Can we go riding again?” She asked, “It’s been almost a month since we went last.”

Tyrion knew he should say no. His father’s men were already riding into Casterly Rock each day. It was only a matter of time before Tywin Lannister himself strode through the gates. They had to be careful.

Instead of doing the logical, cautious, and wise thing – Tyrion found himself saying, “Yes.”

VII.

“You should keep the mare.” Tyrion said as they drew closer to the city.

“You’re giving me a horse?” Sansa ran her fingers through the course, wiry mane. The horse whinnied in response to her touch. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to feel as if you’ve traded the prison of King’s Landing for the prison of Casterly Rock. I have never wanted you to feel as such.”

Silence fell over them once more.

It was more than the horse itself. _He’s giving me the gift of freedom. If I wanted to ride for the Twins tomorrow, I could. He would not stop me...he’d call it unwise, ask for more protection, but…he wouldn’t **stop** me. _

When they arrived at the stables, Sansa crouched down beside Lord Tyrion and kissed his cheek. The stubble on his jaw tickled her mouth and she felt a strong, swelling feeling shoot down to her stomach.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He touched his cheek and blinked at her before a slow, slow smile spread across his face. “You’re welcome, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's BEEN A WHILE! I'm sorry. I hope this chapter was worth it! HEHEHEH


	11. Chapter 11

I.

“So, have you got a favorite then?” Aunt Genna asked over breakfast. Tyrion lifted his head from his mug of dark ale.

“Pardon?”

“You visited the Cliff Rose three times this week. What’s her name?”

Tyrion looked down at his plate, cutting his sausage, “Her name is Zalla Ro.”

Her lips pursed and she shook her head, the long earrings framing her chubby face sparkled in the light. He knew she wasn’t disapproving his appetite for wine and whores. Rather, she was disappointed that he kept secrets from her.

“Reports say your father will be here by the full moon.”

Tyrion wiped the oil from his mouth, “I know.”

II.

Sansa strained the herbal mixture through a cloth. The hot steam from the water curled the small hairs framing her face that escaped the wrapping she wore around her head. She peered over at the book and set the cloth down. That was everything.

She turned, holding the mug, and looked at the young whore sitting by the fire.

“Drink this. It should help with the pain.”

Tyrion never told her to stay in her rooms. He just told her to be careful, hide her hair, and use a new name (since Jonquil had allegedly sailed nearly a month ago). She went to see her mare, she walked the markets, she went to the fishing docks, all with Shella close by.

But, mostly, Sansa looked forward to the evenings when Tyrion would have supper with her.

“You’ve got quite the smile on your face.” The other woman said after sipping her tea and Sansa began putting back together her ingredients and supplies.

“Do I?” Sansa bit her lower lip.

“And now a _blush_.” The woman grinned, “You’re a maiden, aren’t you?”

Sansa’s back straightened, “I don’t see why everyone brings that up. I…I had a friend who’d want to talk about it all the time.” Her heart strings pulled as she thought of Joy.

“Well, honey, once you’ve done it then it’s worth talking about. _Especially_ if the man is good.”

Her brow furrowed. She didn’t know what that meant. This was not a conversation she was ever prepared to have. Her septa told her that after marriage, it is a wife’s duty to provide an heir. Yet, they never went into the specifics. Joy had told her that she had been bedded and that it _‘hurt for a moment, and then was the loveliest thing.’_

“I don’t know what you mean.” She pulled her bag over her shoulder, “It’s not like horse riding? Someone can’t be good or bad at it. It’s just – something that we must do.”

The woman laughed, “You’d be surprised to know how much like horse-riding it is.” She shook her head, “Listen, where I am from, sex is an art. It’s not something we _must_ do. It’s something we enjoy and a way to celebrate life. Do me a favor and don’t marry the first man who takes you to bed.” She winked.

Sansa felt her face redden. She took a deep breath and decided perhaps the other woman wasn’t trying to insult her. Maybe she was trying to be helpful. Her way of life was different – just like how Shella’s was different.

“Could you tell…” She trailed off, embarrassed – “What am I saying? Never mind. It’s – I should go.”

“Stay! Please! It’s not everyday someone asks a whore for advice.”

Sansa sank down into the chair opposite of her. Her heart thudded in her chest. She felt as if she were reaching for some ancient, forbidden knowledge. There was yearning inside of her. She’d feel it late at night and she’d toss and turn, and she’d dream of a body on top of hers.

Sometimes, she’d panic – fearing that she was being attacked and she’d jolt awake.

But lately, the dream would pull her deeper under and she would wake up with her hand between her legs and a frustrating groan shuddering her body.

When she finally left the whorehouse, the sky was beginning to go awash with colors of purple and orange.

III.

Jaime stared at the castle against the sunset. The stones turned red beneath the sky. He leaned his head against the tree trunk as Brienne watered and cared for the horses.

“Are you feeling alright, Ser Jaime?” She asked. They had been riding for close to three days and he hadn’t insulted her. He spoke briefly during their sparring sessions and she almost wanted to goad him to illicit a response. But then she saw him staring out at the sunset and she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

He could’ve left her behind in the capital. He didn’t. He thought the Red Priestess was full of shit. Yet, he joined her. Her duty to Lady Stark was _hers_. Her mission to find and return Arya and Sansa was _hers_.

“I’m fine.” His eyes met hers, “I’m just feeling nostalgic.”

“Are you nervous?”

He barked a rough laugh, “No. Gods – no!”

Brienne looked out onto the rocky landscape and touched the hilt of her sword. _You may be full of confidence, Ser Jaime. But I am not._

IV.

“This will likely be our final picnic.” Tyrion said, pulling his traveling hood over his face, as Bronn rode at the front with a torch in hand. Shella sat at the rear, illuminating Sansa’s path.

“And a late one, too.” Sansa mentioned as her horse began to trot alongside his. “Once your father arrives, I’ll need to be confined to my living quarters, won’t I?

Tyrion clenched his reins. “You’ll just need to be more careful. You’re not a prisoner here, Lady Stark.” He looked up into the darkening sky and saw the moon beginning to rise on the horizon. It was three quarters full. His stomach twisted into knots. Every instinct in him wanted to put Sansa on a boat and get her as far away as possible.

But those instincts were _soft_. They came from some slumbering space inside of him that he didn’t have time to analyze. Sansa was right when she told him that the risk would be too high to return to Winterfell, but he feared that she’d eventually resent him for keeping her in the Westerlands this long.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind, eager to change the topic of conversation, “My friend wanted to pass along the message that your tea helped. She’s in your debt.”

Sansa smiled, but it was brief, “That is most kind.” She kept her gaze on the road ahead, “The books I have are fairly old. I was worried they wouldn’t be useful or accurate.”

“Perhaps we could get you new ones.”

“From where?”

Tyrion smirked, “I don’t know. Some old maester eager to make room in his library?”

“You’d have to find a very generous maester. I’ve seen books left to rot on the shelves rather than given up.” She played along and it made his heart sing with the joy.

V.

Tyrion finished the last of the wine flagon and he laid back against the blanket. The stars twinkled down at them.

“Tyrion?”

“Hm?”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

That piqued his interest. He sat up on his elbows, “Lady Stark, I like to believe that you and I have developed a sort of _friendship_ during our time together. You may ask me whatever you wish.”

“I overheard your aunt speaking and she mentioned that you were married?”

Tyrion’s eyes screwed shut.

Her voice cut in, clearing away the noise in his head, “I’m sorry – it’s not something we need to discuss. I was – I was simply curious.”

Tyrion never thought he’d tell Sansa Stark – of all people – the story of Tysha.

He opened his eyes, “I was sixteen…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the short chapter everyone!! Things will be...getting very exciting soon.


	12. Chapter 12

I.

The castle was in full preparation for his father’s arrival. There was to be a feast. _Of course._ Tyrion rolled his eyes as he looked over the expenses. It was a good thing that the mines were still producing, that war required an increase in the payments they received from the small folk, but Tyrion couldn’t ignore the fact that the days were getting shorter. Sailors spoke of cold winds from the North, of wealthy merchants taking large pleasure ships to Essos – better to wait out the winter among whores and spices than to try and endure here. He and his aunt had done all that they could in order to get ready for winter – increases to the granary, salting meats, pickling the fruits and vegetables that they could in brine.

But, the truth stared in him in the face as he walked down the long, open stone hallways of his childhood home. This was a southern castle. It would not survive a long night. The small folk would have it worse…they had no high walls, no large fireplaces, no storerooms filled with food.

He thought of Sansa, tucked away inside the secret apartments of a brothel. She was a Northern woman. But, would she survive out there? Or should he try and risk returning her to the castle? There would be riots for food. He knew that if things got especially bad, that there was a chance they’d have to raise the gate and isolate the court. His fingertips pressed into his temples.

He would not leave her out there to starve or freeze to death.

Not after what happened during their last picnic. His stomach fluttered at the memory.

“Tyrion.” His aunt’s voice broke him from his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“I need you to come with me to the dungeons.” Her lips pursed. She wore a frown so often lately. “We found two thieves trying to break into the treasury.”

His heart jumped in his chest and he clambered down from his seat. It was his responsibility to deliver justice…as it was expected of him – ruling in his father’s absence. But that didn’t make it any easier.

A question nagged at him while he followed his Aunt Genna.

Who would be foolish enough to try and get into the treasury? Especially when the castle itself had plenty of gold, weapons, and other artifacts.

II.

The guard opened the cell door and Tyrion stepped inside – the smell of unwashed bodies hitting the back of his throat. The low torchlight made it difficult to see, but in front of him was a haggard looking man, bearded and dirty, and a tall, ugly woman in armor.

“Leave us.” Aunt Genna said to the guard, folding her hands in front of her plump stomach.

_A woman…in…armor?_

The haggard man stepped closer, the light illuminating the green color of his eyes - “Hello, brother.”

“Jaime!” He hurried forward and as Jamie crouched, they embraced.

“Gods, you look terrible.” Tyrion frowned, looking him over. “What happened to your hand? Why were you trying to break into the treasury?”

“Courtesy of Locke.” He lifted the stump, scowling at it, “And we didn’t.” Jaime shook his head, “We snuck into the castle through the sewers. I had Brienne go to Genna’s rooms. She felt it would be more private if we spoke in the dungeons. She…” He looked over at their aunt, “Felt it appropriate that the whole castle doesn’t know of my return just yet.”

“Father will be here any day.”

“Yes.” Jaime’s mouth twisted, “And he will likely wish to instate me as his heir and find some noble woman for me to marry.”

Jaime was not _officially_ exiled from the Kingsguard.

Tywin wouldn’t care, though.

“Tyrion, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth.” The woman nodded, “She’s in Catelyn Stark’s employ searching for her children.”

“We have reason to believe that Sansa is with you, Lord Tyrion.” Brienne said, her voice stiff.

His mood darkened. Did he have a spy in his court?

“ **Who** told you that.” Tyrion replied, taking a step back from Jaime and narrowing his eyes at Brienne. The blonde woman looked nervous for a moment – her eyes darting to the hay-covered dirt floor. A chill ran through the dungeons.

“The Red Priestess.” Jaime cut in, “She showed Brienne a vision in the flames. She saw you, and Sansa, here in Casterly Rock. I told her it was a bunch of _nonsense_.” He snorted, “But, she was adamant that we journey here.”

Tyrion looked Brienne. Perhaps this woman-knight would be the answer to his prayers. The one who could get Sansa Stark back home to her family. Tyrion couldn’t afford to send any of Tywin’s guardsmen. He didn’t trust their loyalty. But, Bronn, Shella, and Brienne? Three capable fighters. They could make the trip North.

“She’s here.” Tyrion said, keeping his voice quiet.

Brienne’s clear blue eyes me this. Her gaze was sharp and hopeful.

“Seven hells.” Jaime ran a hand over his dirtied face, “I need to hear this story.”

III.

Jaime scrubbed his skin until it was pink and raw. The bathwater grew murky with dirt and Gods know what else. He wrapped the wounded skin with fresh linen. He could see the scars now as his stitching was beginning to fall out.

He looked at the mirror, the washing bin, with the razor. He didn’t trust himself to shave his face and not cut his own throat. He settled for scrubbing his beard clean.

It took him twice as long to get dressed, but at least he felt like half a man again.

It was odd to be here. It was odd to be here _without_ Cersei. He could feel her within these walls. He sighed. What did it matter? She was gone. Gone like Joffrey and Tommen. Although he had only heard rumors that the Queen Regent was burned with the rest, Jaime knew in his heart that Cersei was gone. He _felt_ it.

She always said that they came into this world together, so they would leave it together. She was wrong.

He still lived. Crippled and broken, as he was but alive, nonetheless.

Jaimie walked to the bed, looking at the box that the Red Priestess had given him. As he and Brienne had traveled, he considered opening it nearly a dozen times. He didn’t. Not because he was afraid of what could be inside, but because he didn’t want to believe that it was something he _needed_. 

That’s the note that came with the box.

_“This is something you will someday need. – M.”_

As long as the Red Priestess was wrong about Sansa, he could justify never opening it. He could throw the damn thing in the river.

But now…

Tyrion wouldn’t lie to him. Sansa was here – in the city – and had been with him since she fled King’s Landing.

So, the Red Priestess was right about Sansa. So, what else was she right about? Was there another greater war on the horizon? Were her prophesies true? He touched the latch.

The candlelight reflected of the black, glossy surface.

Jaime wanted to laugh but the sound would not come. This surely must be a joke. He grasped the object and lifted it. It was exceptionally made. Not too light, not too heavy. Well-balanced. He turned it in his grasp.

Then slid the onyx-colored hand onto the stump of his right arm.

IV.

Daenerys looked out from the large open balcony at the ships below. The red and black banners – her sigil – her _family_. Her legacy. Soon, her fleet would be finished.

“Are you nervous to return home, Your Grace?” Varys asked, stepping beside her. She could smell his heavy, flowered perfume.

She thought of the red door. The lemon tree outside her window.

“I am nervous to leave Mereen behind.” She said, her palms warmed by the hot stone as she leaned against the bannister. “I can only hope that the advisors that I leave behind will honor my wishes. Are you nervous to return? Stannis will see you as a traitor.”

Varys made a note that she did not answer his question. That was good. It was better to answer questions with your own. To avoid revealing too much of yourself.

“Stannis sees traitors within every shadow on the wall.” Varys shrugged.

V.

Sansa laid upon her bed and stared up at the ceiling. She felt _different_. She knew that what happened between her and Tyrion had changed _something_.

Her mind wandered back to that night. The night of their final picnic…with the half-moon staring down at them…

VI.

The story of Tysha pulled at each her heartstrings.

She did not know what compelled her next movement. Perhaps it was more than friendship that had blossomed between herself and Lord Tyrion. Perhaps it was that same, urgent need to feel free – the feeling that she had before she escaped. But, one moment they were sitting side by side on their blanket, the wineskin half-empty, and in the next moment – Sansa clutched the front of his doublet and brought her mouth down to his.

This man – right here – he protected her, he listened to her, and he cared for her. She knew it with every ounce of her body. He wasn’t going to cut down her enemies like the Hound. He wouldn’t ever harm her like Joffrey had. No. Tyrion was different. _Special_.

Her lips moved clumsily and then found a rhythm. A passing moment of panic coursed through her body as she felt his hands on her face. She feared that he was pushing her _away_. But no. He was touching her face with such tenderness and softness and moving his lips against her own.

Her heart and head felt dizzy.

She tried to remember everything that the woman had told her. About what men and women _do_. Her hands roamed across his body, clutching his shoulders, carding through his soft hair. Tyrion made a soft, pleased noise.

“Sansa,” He breathed, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, no, please – Tyrion.” She kissed him once more – urgent, needy, “I like this.”

“Slowly, slowly.” He muttered, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. “I may be the Imp, but I don’t think it would be right of me to – well – Sansa. You’re a highborn lady.”

She flushed, a lovely color on her pale skin, “Tyrion…of all the men I’ve known, and _trusted_ , you’re the only one I wish to experience this with. We don’t need to…” The pink on her cheeks grew darker, “ _You know_ … _do everything.”_

Tyrion bit his lip to stop himself from grinning.

“But I want to do this. I _trust_ you.” She pinned him in place with her gaze, “That means something in this world. I trust very few men, Lord Tyrion.”

“Okay.” He nodded, “Just remember that we can stop at any moment. Any time. Say the word and I will stop.”

“Okay.” Sansa breathed the word and then they were kissing again. She found that she _enjoyed_ kissing. She could feel the slight roughness of the stubble on his cheek, but his lips were soft and warm.

His hand reached up to her bodice and he slowly pulled aside the strings until her breasts were exposed to the cool, night air. His hand covered one, squeezing it lightly, mummering words of affection to his Northern wolf in between kisses.

He broke their kiss and covered his mouth over the other one, tonguing the hardened nipple and hearing her soft gasps. Sansa clutched at his hair, her spine arching against his mouth.

“Are you alright?” He asked, flicking his tongue across her breast.

“Yes, oh please…” Her skin was flushed pink, her breathing labored. Sansa didn’t know what she needed, only that she needed something. She felt like she was going to explode out of her skin. Her thighs rubbed together, some instinctual part of her mind knowing what to do even if she didn’t have the words. “I need…I don’t…”

Tyrion shushed her, “Relax.” Her skirts were shifted up and she felt his hand at her core, and it made her jump. But then he was touching her, and Sansa forgot how to breathe.

Her body writhed against his hand, hips jerking, “Please, please.” She took both hands and collected her skirt, clenching it between her fingers, and her eyelids squeezed shut. Tyrion settled his body between her legs, his fingers rubbing circles against the tight bundle of nerves at her center. Her hips bucked and her mouth released soft, sweet whimpers. He could feel how slick she was as his knuckles brushed against her folds.

“Sansa…” He whispered.

“Y-yes?”

“If I do something that you don’t like, you can tell me.”

“O-okay.” She gasped, her body trembling, “This feels – I _like_ this.” She now understood why Joy spoke so much of lovemaking.

Her eyes opened wide as she felt something hot and wet at her core. She held her skirt up higher and sat up to see that Tyrion was… _kissing_ her? He pushed aside her smallclothes and ran his tongue across her center and Sansa fell back onto the blanket, a soft, panting breath escaping her. Her thighs clamped together.

“Tyrion!” Her body squirming and hips grinding against his touch. The pressure in her lower stomach was building and building and Tyrion began to move faster. Her hands reached blindly down, and she curled them into his hair. She felt him moan against her. Then, his tongue was inside her and his thumb was rubbing her, and Sansa finally, _finally_ felt the pressure break. She might’ve cried out as the most wonderful feeling surrounded her. It was a heavy, tingling warmth that spread through her and left her shaking.

“Sansa, you’re so beautiful.” Tyrion said, “So, so beautiful.”

Tyrion wanted that image imprinted on his mind for the rest of his days. He wanted to see Sansa Stark, laid out before him, her breasts spilling from her bodice, her skirts shoved up to her ribs with her legs spread for him. He wanted to feel her walls clench around him as she came. He wanted her to ride him. To take him into his mouth. He wanted to wake up next to her and tease her until she begged. His cock throbbed in his breeches.

Her sky-blue eyes looked up at him. She looked a little dazed…but content.

“Tyrion,” She breathed, “That was so…” Then her eyes looked down, “Did you- I mean- the man is supposed to?” She fumbled for words and Tyrion felt his heart grow soft – again – for this wolf.

“I can finish with my hand.” He said, keeping his tone casual, “I’m under the assumption that you want no bastard children.”

“Could I…?” She sat up, pulling the front of her dress up to cover her nakedness.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. He laid back and unlaced his breeches. He wanted so badly to go slowly – so he kissed her once more, stroked her hair and face. After a few moments, her hand wrapped around his cock and Tyrion had to clench his jaw to stop himself from spilling right there.

“Easy, easy.” His hand closed around hers.

“Have I hurt you!?” She drew her face away, shock and concern written all over her face. Her hair draped down over him and tickled his jaw. A beautiful red curtain.

“No, no, shh. Let me show you.” Tyrion tightened his grip, “Yes, like that – Oh fuck.” He dared to glance down and just the sight of her touching him made his body tighten. He released her hand, allowing her to stroke him and Tyrion’s hands fisted the blanket, his fingertips digging into the grass underneath.

Sansa’s brows were knit in concentration, her lips parted and flushed from his kisses, and he wanted – Gods – what did he want? Tyrion’s eyes fluttered shut. Her lips met his and Tyrion cupped her face between his hands, a quick command of “Faster” escaping his mouth.

His head snapped back onto the blanket as he came, spilling his seed across his lower abdomen, and between the ringing of his ears – he heard Sansa’s gasp. His eyes first saw the starlight sky above them and then sought her flushed face.

They shared the quiet, timid smiles of lovers.

And they began to pack up their things.

VII.

Tyrion told Jaime everything.

Except for _one_ part of his story.

That was theirs and theirs alone.

Even if Sansa never desired him again – well – he’d survive it. He never thought in a hundred years that a woman as smart, and beautiful, and kind as Sansa Stark would want to share his bed. He would carry that memory inside his chest and cherish it. It made his entire body feel warm when he thought of it.

“So, what’s the plan?” Jaime said, wiping his face.

“Well, you can’t stay here.” Tyrion pointed out the obvious, “You, Brienne, Shella, Bronn and Sansa should book the first ship to White Harbor.”

Jaime’s complexion went sour.

Tyrion frowned, “What?”

“I’m a _cripple_. I can’t help the Stark girl.”

He shrugged, “You’ve got two hands. Bronn can teach you.”

“And you’re going to stay here?”

“Last I checked, Catelyn Stark still wanted my head because she believes I was involved in the attempted assassination of Bran.” Tyrion poured another glass of wine, “I will stay here and keep an eye on everything else. We’re still at war. Which reminds me…” Tyrion pulled a letter from his shirt. He passed it to Jaime.

_A man will come with a hand in black,_

_With him - a bounty of sapphires,_

_And an oath which shall be broken._

“I see the hand.” He looked at Jaime’s new adornment, “I don’t see any sapphires.” Tyrion smirked.

“That would be Brienne.” He looked away from the note, his expression annoyed and disturbed. “To save her, I claimed that her father would pay her weight in sapphires.”

“Ah.” Tyrion swirled the wine in his glass, “And the oath? Is this about the Mad King?”

Jaime shook his head, “No.”

Just then, Brienne entered, and Tyrion saw the sword at her side. He recognized the hilt.

“We named it Oath Breaker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP! I hope that was worth it. I actually had written it (the smut) - intending it to be in the last chapter - but I dunno. It didn't fit the flow or something. :) I hope ya'll enjoyed this installment. Thank you again for all the comments and kudos. It's so sweet and inspiring!
> 
> Altho, I will say - trying to tie in storylines...is tough. LOL.


	13. Chapter 13

I.

Sansa knew that Tywin would return but, she hadn’t expected the sudden feeling of…well… _loneliness_ to accompany it. The evening of his arrival, she stood on her balcony with a hood to cover her bright red hair and watched the columns of men as they marched into the castle. She watched the banners flap in the wind, could hear the shouts of men, and the aggravation of horses.

Tywin’s arrival meant Tyrion’s departure. She _knew_ that. Tyrion wouldn’t risk coming to see her.

Without thinking, the pads of her fingers touched her lower lip.

But maybe something had changed now?

Sansa screwed her eyes closed. _No! Don’t be an idiot. Nothing has changed. We are still at war. Tyrion wouldn’t risk your safety. He went through all this trouble to keep you hidden, protected, until he could find arrangements to return you home. He made his promises. He will keep them._

As she turned back into the room and her heart felt cold. She tried to busy her fingers with needlework, but after the third or fourth time of accidentally pricking her index finger due to her distracting mind, Sansa set the work down.

She tried to read her book about the various herbs of Westeros. She sat at her desk and propped her chin in her hand and tried to focus on the words. They slipped through her mind like water. She closed the book with a thump and grabbed a sheet of parchment.

Even if they could not see each other, that did not mean she couldn’t write him. An idea took root inside her mind and began to blossom. She dipped the quill into the ink.

_My lord,_

_Do you remember when you asked me what I missed most?_

She smiled at the memory. One of their conversations over dinner. One of the many they shared over these past few months.

_I’ve discovered an answer at last. I miss the snow._

She nibbled her lower lip between her teeth, the quill hovering over the page.

_I remember when my sister hit me with a snowball, and I chased her through the kitchens. I had my revenge, of course. And our brothers howled with laughter. There was another day when I went riding with my oldest brother. It just began to snow when we were returning home. I remember tilting my face up to catch the snowflakes on my skin. I remember seeing my brother shake his head to get the snowflakes out of his hair._

She keeps writing until her hand begins to cramp and there’s a dampness to her eyes. She stubbornly wiped it away, leaning back in her chair and staring at the letter. If he were here, she knows that he’d tilt his head in _that_ _way_ when he was listening. She knows he would smirk when she mentioned Arya and the snowball fight.

The letters brought her some comfort.

But the night was no less lonely.

II.

Jamie and Brienne remain at an inn nearby the keep. It was Tyrion’s suggestion. They weren’t too far from Sansa, either. The main purpose was to try and keep Tywin from finding out that Jamie returned. If Tywin knew of his son’s arrival, and obvious banishment from the Kingsguard, then Tywin would instate Jamie as the Lord of the Rock.

And Jamie Lannister was _tired_ of titles.

He mulled over the brown soup in front of him.

Tyrion said it would only take a few days to get everything arranged for himself, Bronn, Shella, and Brienne to whisk Sansa away on a ship to the North. From there, it would be a month’s journey to Torren’s Square– assuming the winds and waters were favorable. The original plan had been to go to White Harbor, to try and avoid the Greyjoys, but Brienne convinced them otherwise. Torren’s Square would be the faster route and the sooner Sansa was on her own land, with her own people, the safer she would be.

Brienne would fulfill her duty to Catelyn Stark.

All would be well, wouldn’t it? His stomach recoiled. Why in the Seven Hells did he feel so anxious, then?

III.

Tyrion did not know what to expect when he faced his father after so many months had passed. He was not expecting _this_. By Twyin standards, the man was outright jovial. His keen eyes were bright, his jaw set, his entire being radiating with a righteousness that spoke of victory.

“Sit down.” Tywin instructed, taking his own seat behind the desk, “I have news that should come from me rather than through idle, disgusting gossip.”

“Very well.” Tyrion guarded his expression.

“Robb Stark is dead.”

The floor dropped beneath his feet. His mask of neutrality dropped, and his face was pure, undulated shock.

“Pardon?”

“The Freys ended him and a dozen of his closest officers and declared their support for us as the rightful rulers of the Kingdom.” Tywin said. There was no smile on his face, but Tyrion could feel the smile in his voice. “You can read it for yourself.” He said, opening a drawer and setting an opened letter on the desk.

_This was madness._

_Sansa will be heartbroken._

Tyrion read the letter and tried to steel his nerves. Robb Stark was dead. Catelyn Stark, too. Robb Stark’s bride, Jeyne Westerling, had been taken into custody. The Northern Army _slaughtered_ at a wedding. The Riverlands broken. Walder Frey being named Lord of the Riverlands and declaring himself a vassal of the rightful ruler – King Tywin Lannister of the Rock.

His head was spinning.

“I will make the announcement tomorrow morning. The Rock will be named independent, as it once was.” Tywin said, “You should look happier.”

“ _Happier_?” He croaked, “This is – this is your plan? Declare independence and what? March on Stannis?”

Tywin glowered, “I won’t fight him in the North. I will wait for him to return South, weakened, and handle the justice he so rightly deserves for murdering Joffery, Tommen, and Cersei.”

“And then take the Iron Throne?”

Tywin shook his head, “No. We will have a new throne. Here. Casterly Rock is a more impressive fortress. I have no interest in upholding the Targaryen legacy any longer.” He paused, weighing his words, “The realm will fall into line. They lack true leadership.” He sucked his teeth, his expression stern as ever, “The Vale is held by a weak, sickly-boy. The North has no heir. The Boltons have already proven their loyalty to us and they will be rewarded in due time. Dorne has little love for Stannis and if they must choose between a Lannister and a tyrant whose turning into the Mad King – well – I suspect I know what gentle Doran Martell will choose.”

He stared at his father. He hated this game. He hated not knowing what Tywin was _truly_ planning. Yes, he laid out the pieces on the board, but Tyrion knew better than that. There was more that Tywin wasn’t tell him. The Boltons and Frey’s had betrayed Robb Stark. It was likely that Tywin would reward each family with the Lord Paramountcy once the war was finished. Where did that leave him? And Jamie? And more importantly – what about Sansa? 

There was an ache building between his eyebrows that spoke of a painful headache for the next few hours. He wished he could simply leave, excuse himself, and find Sansa – find comfort and solace in her arms for a few hours before he broke the news. He _needed_ to be the one to tell her.

“Now, there’s more I wish to go over with you.” His tone brokered no argument. Tywin called in a servant, “Collect Genna.” He said and Tyrion knew it would be a long, sufferable evening.

IV.

Sansa gave her letter to Shella. Tyrion, she knew, still had a few of his mountain clansmen still at the castle. So, it wouldn’t be odd for Shella to be there. It was a calculated risk. She did not know when she could or would see Tyrion again.

She stared at the paper, “I do not wish to leave you.”

“You will only be gone a few minutes and I am _safe_ here.” Sansa reassured her, glancing around her room, hidden as it was behind a secret door. “You have left me before.”

Shella scoffed at that, “Going downstairs to drink is not leaving, she-wolf.”

“I will stay right here. I will not even step out onto the balcony.” She bit her lip, “ _Please_ , Shella. You are the only one I trust.”

“Very well.” Shella still did not look happy about playing courier. Yet, she swore an oath to Sansa. She would uphold it.

When the woman left, Sansa exhaled and sank down onto her bed. She fished her herbal book from underneath her pillow and began to read – if anything to just pass the time and numb her mind. No matter how hard she tried, her mind continued to return to the evening with Tyrion. His mouth on her body, his hands, the feeling of him – how she burned with… _desire_. She finally had a word for it. He had made her come alive beneath the stars and Sansa could feel her curiosity tugging at every spare thought she had. She flopped down onto the bed and stared – unseeing – at the ceiling.

Her mind was leagues away, inside a fantasy of her own creation. She saw Tyrion’s head between her breasts, placing hot, scorching kisses on her skin, could hear his soft mummers of affection – who had _ever_ spoken to her so sweetly? She felt the warm, wet heat of his mouth as his tongue rolled along her nipple, sucking lightly, making her spine arch involuntarily. The air was rich with the smell of roses. The world around them was bright green. She fancied they were inside a garden – vaster, wilder, more beautiful than the ones she had ever seen in King’s Landing. She saw him between her legs, like he had done that night, and heard him calling her ‘ _beautiful’_ over and over again. Her skin tingled with an emotion she did not have the name for. She pressed her thighs together and that helped a _little_.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Sansa rose her skirts to her stomach and experimentally dipped a hand between her legs. Her smallclothes felt damp. She let her eyes flutter closed and gave herself a small, feather-soft stroke. Her body shuddered. _Okay_. She imagined Tyrion once more, tongue laving across her body, and then – she saw him pull himself from his breeches. She visualized the heavy swell of him. She recalled how he felt in her hands.

She imagined he might say something kind, like _“Are you ready?”_ And she would nod. She did not know what he would fee like going inside of her. She slid a finger between her folds, biting back a gasp at the intrusion, and then she – slowly – began to pump her finger in and out. Small tremors shook her body, but they were nothing compared to the earthquake that Tyrion had given her. She squirmed against the bed. Where had he touched her? Where had his mouth been? She slid her wet finger up along her core, and then rubbed the little nub right above her entrance and she gasped, louder, this time. The sensation sent lightning bolts along her spine and her breath began to come out in quick, stuttered pants.

Tyrion was there. He was above her. He was sliding into her, calling her beautiful, holding her hips and his hair was falling into his eyes. _“Yes.”_ She imagined saying, spurning him onward, encouraging him to love her. Sansa whined, chasing that inevitable feeling, her hips canting up and rocking into her own touch.

“Tyrion.” She murmured, tossing her head to the side, and biting her lower lip, “Tyrion.” Her fantasy bloomed to life behind her eyelids. Tyrion was slick with sweat, groaning, touching her where their bodies were joined and whispering how lovely she was, how strong, how smart—

Sansa whimpered as her climax hit her. It wasn’t as strong as what she felt with Tyrion, but it was still _nice_. It made her feel warm and bubbly all over. It made her thighs tremble and her heart slam into her ribcage. She wiped her hand onto her skirts, unsure of what really to do with the wetness that had collected on her fingers.

There was a knock on the door and Sansa stood, numbly, still dazed from her exploration.

She opened it and her eyes stared up into the slits of a Lannister guards’ helm.

V.

Bronn shouldered his way into Tyrion’s room and before the Imp could speak, “They found Sansa.”

The goblet that Tyrion was holding clattered to the floor – the fine Arbor wine spilling across the carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about this story! My muse for it is just all over the place. 
> 
> But, yes, things are starting to BE THROWN TOGETHER lol


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa folded her hands in her lap. Neither she nor Lord Tywin had spoken since she was brought into his solar. A servant had come and poured them both a glass of wine. Sansa refused to touch hers.

“I should have known my son would try to hide you in a whorehouse.” Tywin’s lips pulled into a grimace, “But, I suppose this makes everything so much easier.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. _I am a wolf. Wolves do not kneel._

“Do you want to know how I found you?” Tywin asked.

Sansa remained silent.

“Nothing to say?” He looked at the guards standing behind her chair, “Bring her to her rooms. If she wishes to act like a child, then she will be treated as one.”

She wanted to snap at him. To tell him of all that she had done. All that she had survived. But, still, she remained quiet and stood. As her back was turned, Tywin spoke one final time—

“The King in the North is dead.”

II.

She sat by the window and stared out in the rolling waves of the sea. She was vaguely aware of someone coming and leaving her food on the table. Her gaze did not waver. Hot, salty tears slid down her cheeks and landed on the backs of her pale hands. Could Tywin have lied?

Robb, Bran, Rickon, _Arya_ …

She swallowed past the tight lump in her throat.

She was the last.

“No.” She whispered fiercely as if that could force the truth away. If she was the last Stark, then she was the heir to Winterfell. Even _if_ her mother were still alive – another hiccup broke past Sansa’s lips – then her mother would simply handle the household until Sansa became of age.

She squeezed her eyes shut and a tear dripped past her nose.

 _They cannot have me_. She thought with sudden ferocity. The Lannisters, save for one, had caused her nothing but grief and heartache. _They will not use me as a pawn in their games._ She wiped her face with her handkerchief.

Tywin, what did he think she was? Just a stupid girl?

Very well. She stood and approached the table where her dinner resided.

Let his expectations be his downfall then.

III.

Dorne raised the Targaryen banners with their own as the Queen’s ships came into view.

Dany looked out, palms pressed into the railing of her ship, as she laid eyes on Westeros for the first time. Her heartbeat steadily in her chest as her dragons flew above. This was her destiny. She would remove the Usurper from the Throne and she would bring peace once and for all.

Robert Baratheon killed her brother, Rhaegar and took her throne.

Now, she would kill his brother and take her place once more.

Daenerys knew from speaking with Varys that Stannis would never be captured, and he would _never_ kneel.

The ships docked and Daenerys stepped from the wooden ramp to the welcoming party. There was a mild looking man in a wheelchair, a handsome man at his side with a spear on his back, and a woman beside him. They were all dressed splendidly in warm, golden tones of their house. They looked almost relieved to see her. Perhaps, they feared that her ships would not make it.

“My Queen.” The man in the wheelchair nodded and those that stood beside him dropped to a kneel. “We have awaited your return. I am glad the winds were favorable.”

“Doran.” Daenerys gave him a slight smile, then turned to greet each member who joined him on the docks as the Unsullied warriors and Dothraki’s began to make way towards the sandy shoreline. Her dragons soared overhead. Their scales reflecting brilliantly from the water and sunlight as they dipped low and swooped back up.

Doran watched them with keen eyes.

“No matter how strong Stannis’ army. He is no match for a dragon.” Oberyn said, mostly to himself, as he looped his arm around his lover’s waist. His eyes swept to Barristan, recognition in their dark depths, and a slow, charming smile spread across his face.

“Come,” Doran extended his hand to the castle, “You must be wary. We’ve prepared a feast for you.”

Daenerys cast a look behind her at Missandei, Varys, Barristan, and Grey Worm. Her faithful advisors. She nodded to them and together they walked along the sand-dusted planks to the waiting horses and carriages that would bring them to the Old Palace of Sunspear.

IV.

“They’ve captured her?” Jamie repeated, staring at Bronn and Shella across from him. The tiny room in the inn was – at the very least – private. Brienne was pacing restlessly behind him and he snapped at her no less than four times, but it was of no use.

“We need to save her.” Shella provided. Unhelpfully.

“Tywin won’t kill her.” Jamie said with a slow shake of his head. “She’s the seat of the North. Right now, she’s safe where she is.”

Brienne scoffed, “I disagree, Jamie.”

“Listen.” Bronn pressed his fingertips against the table, “You know that castle, right Jamie? All we need to do is go in, take out her guards, and get her to a ship.”

“How much is my brother paying you?” Jamie frowned and Bronn just shrugged at him.

“Easy plan.” Shella said.

“No – no! Not easy plan.” Jamie snapped at them, “My father brought his army back with him. The castle is impregnable.”

Bronn smiled – slow, wolfish – as if he were sharing a secret joke with himself.

V.

 _Too much_ had occurred in the past forty-eight hours. They found Sansa and confined her to her rooms and refused to let Tyrion near them. Not only did two guards block the doorway, but two blocked the entryway into the guest hall. The castle was bursting with men – soldiers and aristocrats. Tyrion was forced to have Bronn be the go-between for him and Jamie. He still had every intention of getting Sansa away from his father. Even if he didn’t know _where_ to take her.

The Boltons had taken residence in Winterfell had been the most recent report.

The Riverlands were crawling with Frey’s.

On the morning of the third day, Tyrion saw a golden circlet resting on a plush, velvet pillow in his father’s solar.

“Is that to be your crown?” Tyrion asked, pulling himself up into the chair and rubbing his sore legs. Tywin poured wax and sealed his letter before responding to his question.

“Ramsay Bolton will arrive in less than a month’s time.”

“Wh- “Tyrion clenched his jaw, “Why?”

Tywin’s green eyes narrowed, reading his expression, “To marry the Stark girl.”

He clenched the arm of his chair but kept his face neutral, even as his heart threatened to burst from his chest, “Won’t that incite rebellion?”

“Hardly.” Tywin scowled, “The Northmen are a superstitious lot. They will acclimate to the Bolton rule knowing there’s Stark blood.”

 _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ Tyrion thought with a wry twist to his lips. Wasn’t this the answer to his prayers, then? Sansa could return home. His stomach threatened to overturn his breakfast. There were rumors about Ramsay and none of them were kind. He wanted – no – he _needed_ to keep Sansa safe. He cared for her. Deeply. As a man cared for a woman. He wouldn’t see her handed off to a violent, unhinged bastard.

“I see.” Tyrion said with a slight nod, “How is Lady Stark? Have you told her?”

“In due time.” Tywin said, scratching his quill along the page, “The girl is...she’s…” He looked at Tyrion, “Smarter than she lets on.” There was almost a note of pride in his voice. _Almost_. “She would’ve fared well in the courts of the Red Keep.”

Tyrion saw his opening and he took it, “I could tell her of this union.” He offered, “She may welcome it if it comes from me.”

“I do not care if she welcomes it.” He said with another pointed glare.

Tyrion just shrugged and waved down a servant to bring him something to drink. His stomach was still roiling at the thought of Sansa being married. First, Joffery? Now, Ramsay? No. He would not let it happen. Tywin sighed and folded his hands over his desk.

“Very well.” Tywin pursed his lips, “Tell her this evening.”

Tyrion’s heart leapt inside his chest.

VI.

Stannis looked out across into the dark, cold forest from atop the great wall. The frigid, biting wind cut at his skin. His eyes were sunken into his face, dark circles beneath his eyes, and his jaw ached from how long he stood there grinding his teeth. 

How much more death until the Realm could have peace? He wondered, flexing his stiff fingers at the hilt of his sword. He would do his duty. To the Realm. To his family. To their Red God. Yes. In this black and white world where there was only death and light…Stannis knew that he would always do what was _just_. The crown was heavy, but he could bear it.

The Night’s Watch called for aid and what did he do? He came to them. He put aside the scabbling of the Realm. Let the Reach tear their own throat out. He didn’t care. He would handle them after. Tywin, too. The ambitious man and his ridiculous pride. He would suffer no other Kings. He, too, would be dealt with in time.

They all would.

They would kneel or they would _burn_.

He swallowed and blinked the snowflakes away from his eyelashes.

“Your Grace.” Jon spoke, dropping to one knee and then rising. “We received a crow from King’s Landing.”

“Fetch your Maester.” Stannis said, taking the scroll from the boy, “We ride at dawn.”

Jon nodded and turned away, but before he could leave – Stannis spoke one more time. “My offer still stands, Snow. The Boltons reside in your home. I would name you the last Stark.”

“With all respect, your Grace, I wouldn’t be the last Stark.” Jon said, only half-turning to face him, “I still have my sister.”

Stannis clenched his jaw harder. Stubborn boy. He broke the seal – Melisandre’s flame – with his thumb and read the letter.

_Darkness rises and the Light to meet it. I will join you, My King._

He did not like the idea of King’s Landing being left to Seylse, but it was a minor matter. The council he appointed would have to do their job without Melisandre to guide them.

_I saw a vision of dragons bursting from the sun. Three dragons._

_This will not be our only battle, My King. Be ready._

Stannis tossed the parchment into the nearby brazier. The paper flickered and curled into black ash. His cloak billowed with the wind as he turned on his heel and began to make his way across the top of the wall and returned to the lift.

VII.

Sansa tasted the herb with the tip of her tongue, nodded, and then scraped it away from her meat and tucked it into her napkin. It would suffice.

The door creaked heavily as it was opened and she abruptly stood and curtsied, “Lord Tyrion.”

“Lady Stark.”

She lifted her head and met his gaze. It all hit her at once. Her family. Her brother. The loneliness. Everything compounded and threatened to grind her into dust but still – she stood. Tyrion’s warm, green gaze cut her to the wick. He saw through every layer, she knew. The door slammed shut behind him and she met him halfway across the room, dropping to her knees. Her pink skirts pooling around them as she threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, _Tyrion_.” She pressed her nose into his tunic. She could feel his hands gently caressing her the back of her skull. “Is it true? Is Robb…?” She couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he said. All he needed to say.

Sansa clutched him a little tighter.

They stayed like that with only the fire crackling and the soft sounds of Sansa’s shallow breathing as she tried to keep herself composed despite the pain wracking through her chest. She was the last one. What a wolf supposed to do without her pack?

“And…my mother?” She pulled away and saw his expression – that tenderness, that sorrow – the harsh, puckered skin of his scar as it ran down the side of his face and the wetness collecting on his lower lids. He touched her face and Sansa swallowed. She was unable to stop her lower lip from quivering, but no tears spilled from her clear, blue eyes. She had none left.

Sansa leaned forward and kissed him. Hard. With desperation and longing and grief and loneliness.

He returned the kiss with equal fervor, clutching at the back of her neck and fisting strands of her hair between his fingers. In that moment, just like the moment on the hillside, it was just _them_. There was no war. No death. No political games to play.

She reveled in it.

She drowned in it.

His tongue swept along her lower lip and Sansa opened her mouth for him. She sighed into the kiss, letting her fingers relax on their tight grip on the front of his shirt, but only by a fraction. Sansa cautiously dipped her tongue into his mouth and was rewarded with a soft, restrained groan from Tyrion. Their tongues slid gracefully against each other, lips meeting and gently sucking, and the infrequent quiet sigh from her lips as she enjoyed every second of their kiss.

Tyrion was the first to pull away, “I still intend to keep my promise.” He whispered.

“I know.” Sansa licked her lips, chasing the taste of him, “How is Shella? Is she safe?”

“Yes.” He pushed a strand of hair away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear, “But, we have to talk.” He gestured to the two chairs at her small dining table near the fireplace.

The last thing Sansa wanted to do was _talk_.

And yet, she stood, smoothing her skirts, and letting Tyrion pull the chair out for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the jumps around in POV. I am trying my best to keep things...semi-realistic...when it comes to travel. I'm sure it would take Dany a lot longer to get to Dorne but alas - she's there! 
> 
> I wonder how Tyrion and Sansa are going to get out of this one.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: violence/explicit sexual content

I.

“He’s a right prick, ain’t he?” Bronn said, picking at the dirt from under his nails as they congregated inside the small inn room. Himself, the wildwoman Shella, the golden piss-prince Jamie, and the she-knight Brienne. Bronn’s calculating gaze was on the banners and sounds of celebration as Tywin began his coronation. Declaring himself the Biggest Twat of Casterly Rock.

“My father was never one to spare any expense.” Jamie said, looking more like himself after the time spent in the city and no longer traveling. His swordsmanship skills were still weak, but Bronn was fixing that. He’d likely never be as good as he once was, but at least he wasn’t helpless.

“Too many kings.” Shella said gruffly, her axe laid out across her lap, her yellowed teeth pulled into a snarl.

“Tonight, is our only chance.” Brienne said, bringing everyone’s attention to her with her serious, cool tone. “Let’s go over the plan once more.”

II.

The castle was sprawling with knights, lords, lesser lords, their squires, serving girls and boys and the household guard. The morning had been spent at breakfast with the High lords who had rode in. The dined on fresh biscuits, figs, and bacon cooked crisp with black sausages. Tyrion listened as they prattled on about news of the war, of Essos, of rumors across the coastlines.

If it were to be believed – Dragons had been seen in Dorne and slaves freed from Slaver’s Bay. That a Targaryen host was marching from Dorne – but no one could say where it was headed. Walder Frey had been named the Lord Paramount of the Trident and agreed to annex his lands to Tywin. After this coronation, it would be expected for all High lords to march and swear fealty.

 _Seven hells._ His father truly was going to name himself _King_. The reality of it kept hitting Tyrion in flashes of shock.

The morning bled into the afternoon, which included light entertainment in the soldier’s barracks with a small tourney. Tyrion caught men, high and low, playing cyvasse and dice and cards. His stomach was in knots as two thoughts bounced in his mind: His father would be king. He needed to get Sansa to safety.

When the had cast a golden, orange glow upon the castle, everyone gathered at the Lion’s Mouth – the main entry to Casterly Rock. The enormous cavern echoed each shuffle of feet and murmured voice. Bronn touched Tyrion’s shoulder and then slunk away as Tywin stepped forward.

Tywin was dressed in splendid gold and red. His hair was neatly slicked back and away from his face. He was surrounded by the golden armor of his named Knights. Their crimson capes draped across one shoulder and masked faces staring out into the crowd. Tyrion and his aunt were close toward the front, as they rightfully should be – as family. Tyrion watched as their Septon stepped forward, a trail of smoke from his incense following him. The aromatic musty, pine scent soon filled the cavern as it drifted upward. He began his speech about protecting the realm, honor, so on and so forth—Tyrion wasn’t listening.

His eyes were on the crowd as he saw Shell slip away from her designated spot. His eyes scanned back over to his father, watching as the Septon sprinkled water on Tywin’s shoulders. A chill ran through him but Tyrion could not say if it was because of the sun lowering to the horizon or an overall sense of dread.

Life would forever be changed from this moment onward. The Boltons held the North and would secure their loyalty and alliance to King Tywin through marriage of Sansa Stark. The Riverlands would join with them after this ceremony. King Tywin would not only have the wealth of the Lannisters – he’ll have the strength of the North and the Riverlands.

What did Stannis hold? Stormlands and King’s Landing. The Reach remained independent under the Florent’s. But, perhaps Stannis would negotiate considering his wife was a Florent? That is – if he returned from his mysterious journey North.

Dorne may have joined the rumored Dragon Queen, Daenerys Stormborn, but no one knew if that was true.

Either way, Tywin Lannister now held _three_ kingdoms out of seven. Their combined fleets and soldiers were more than adapt at conquering the Iron Islands. They were already broken through in-fighting. If Tywin’s goal is to conquer all Seven Kingdoms for himself – then that would be an easy battle.

But Tyrion doesn’t know if that’s his fathers plan. There’s a difference between being King of the Rock (and its neighbors) and being King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tywin kept his motivations to himself.

Tyrion watched as his father kneeled on one knee, his sword over it, and his eyes shut. Everyone watched with bated breath as the Septon lifted the golden crown from the velvet pillow. The crown’s ruby gems, fitted in between small sculptures of a lion’s face, sparkled off the fading sunlight and torches. Tyrion’s heart picked up speed as the space between crown and his father’s head grew smaller.

The crown set upon the ashy blonde hair of Tywin Lannister and when he opened his cold, perceptive blue eyes – he was named Tywin Lannister Fourth of his name, King of the Rock and Protector of the Realm. The applause was uproarious, and Tyrion felt his lunch stir inside his stomach.

III.

Shella grunted as she yanked the guard’s body backwards into Sansa’s room. The wolf and healer woman that Shella vowed to protect did not look too stunned. She did not scream either. For that – Shella was glad. She did not know how much of the plan Half-Man told the Wolf-girl.

“Come now, wolf.” Shella said, slipping her dagger from its sheath. “It’s time to take you home.”

Shella led Sansa to the second rendezvous point with Jamie. He was dressed like a merchant – his clothes not ratty, but not fine, either. He was their decoy if things started to go sideways. He’d pose as a crippled and confused merchant – here to deliver goods for the coronation and had gotten lost along the way.

“Pray tell, Sansa, how did you get out of attending the coronation?” Jamie asked, his lower face covered in a dark scarf, falling into step beside the woman.

“I didn’t need to.” She replied woodenly, “Your father didn’t want me there.” She shrugged, “After all, his Northern allies have not yet arrived. No need to show me off.”

Shella hissed under her breath as a sound from beyond the castle walls rang out. The beginnings of twilight bled the sky with a splash of purple and blue. It was the sound of merriment as hundreds of lords and ladies celebrated their new King.

“Come.” She snapped, tightening her grip on her dagger. “Not much time.”

The castle would be swarming with guests and soldiers soon. They needed to reach the docks.

IV.

They were almost to Brienne when a blonde-haired woman stepped into their path. Jamie grabbed Sansa by the elbow at the same second Shella launched forward and grabbed the woman --

Sansa gasped as the recognition hit her.

“Don’t kill her!” Sansa blurted out. Shella had one filthy hand over the girl’s mouth and the other held her blade – sharp and clean. The tears were already welling in Joy’s eyes and started to drip down her cheeks.

Shella looked confused.

“Why not?” She scowled, “She’s the one who gave ye up.”

Sansa’s eyes went as wide as saucers, the world tilted on its axis, because Joy was her _friend_. Perhaps, her one true friend in all of this. The girl who treated her like a sister.

“W-what? J-joy - Is that true?” The betrayal cut into her chest. It carved a hole right inside of her.

A fresh wave of tears leaked out of the corners of Joy’s eyes. Shella slowly lowered her hand from Joy’s mouth and the girl crumbled with defeat. Her wet, red-rimmed eyes stared up at Sansa.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. Tywin said he wouldn’t let me marry Harrold and…” Joy sputtered another sob, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know – I didn’t know all this would happen!”

 _Foolish, stupid girl._ Sansa clenched her jaw. She couldn’t place if the words were about Joy or about herself for trusting the woman with her secret.

“I just thought that if I told Tywin where you were – he would let me marry Harrold! Then, then, I thought- you’d come live with us! Like we said. Remember?” She reached for Sansa’s skirts, but Sansa stepped back with horror and pain etched into her face. It **_hurt_**.

Sansa composed herself, remembering how careful they had been, “How did you find me?”

“I followed Tyrion to the – to the- “She sniffled; the tears did not stop. “to the whorehouse…and I just – one day I saw you entering with him and—” There was a hiccup that cut her off, her hands turning to fists against the plush red carpet. “Please forgive me, Sansa! Please! I didn’t know he’d consider you a prisoner. I didn’t know he’d marry you off – “

“Lady Stark, we need to leave.” Jamie said, his fingers tightening softly around Sansa’s elbow.

“I didn’t know! I swear!” Joy squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head. Sansa already knew that Tywin wasn’t going to let her marry Harrold. Joy was family but she was a _bastard_.

And Joy was young.

As the blonde girl wept quietly at her feet, she thought of herself – of a girl in King’s Landing who obediently wrote letters to her family for Cersei and who believed that her father would be banished to the Night’s Watch. A girl with hope. A girl who didn’t know the horrors of war or the horrors of men and Kings.

“Goodbye, Joy.” Sansa muttered, her heart bleeding as she brushed passed her with the knife twisting in her back.

Perhaps, looking back, they should have abandoned the escape. The brief time spent with Joy had put them behind schedule just enough to run into a patrol.

The guards spoke in unison:

“H-hey! Who the hell are you?”

“What are you doing out of your room?!”

Jamie was about to speak when Shella drew her axe from its holster and shouted - “No time! Go!”

Her blade sunk into the juncture of the guard’s neck and shoulder with a wet ‘ _thwap’_. She kicked him in the stomach, pulling the axe free in the same movement, and spun on the second guard. The bottom of her axe clipped his chin, sending him stumbling backwards, and launched her dagger from her hand. The slim blade twirled in the air for a second and then sank itself into the guard’s eye socket.

“Lucky No helmets.” Shella exhaled roughly through her nose as she bent down to retrieve her dagger.

There was a call from the other side of the corridor as they were spotted, “STOP!”

“Run!” Jamie instructed with a tug on Sansa’s arm. She hurried to follow him, her grey-blue skirts swishing along her legs, as he pulled her with him.

Sansa turned to see that Shella was not following and she tried to stop. Jamie’s grip on her arm made her shoulder pop – “Wait! Shella!”

“Stark!” Jamie bit out, yanking her with him, and she nearly toppled to the floor in her haste to catch her balance. He dragged them around a corner, a portrait of his mother staring down at him- “We have to _go_. She’ll catch up.”

Sansa could hear the clanging sound of battle behind her and willed herself to keep her eyes forward. She already lost Joy today. She did not know if she could lose another friend.

“Fuck.” Jamie cursed, seeing another patrol and he hauled Sansa down a different path. They weren’t going to be able to meet up with Brienne if they went this way. Sansa knew the entire plan even if she didn’t have the layout memorized. They were heading too _close_ to the main halls. Her heart pounded rhythmically in her chest as she ran with Jamie.

It was odd to think that once upon a time – she never would have trusted her life with the Jamie Lannister. Yet, here she was, being helped by him and recognizing that he was Tyrion’s brother just as much as he was the Kingslayer.

“This way!” He rasped, another tug, as their course was changed. She had to trust that he knew where he was going. He grew up in these halls, after all. Their footsteps echoed as they rushed down a spiral stone staircase and Brienne came bursting through a side passage. Her face determined and not at all phased that Shella was not with them.

“Hurry!” She said, her tone clipped, “Bronn said they’ve changed their routes. But we can still make it.”

Jamie rolled his eyes at her words, but he did not stop his urgent pace. They circled around, making their way around the kitchens, and thankfully – the servers didn’t pay any mind. They were too busy cooking and carrying plate after plate of aromatic, steaming dishes up the stairs and into the feasting hall.

Sansa could feel that her cheeks were flushed, and her hair had started to come loose from her braid. She just needed to keep moving. They could make it. Brienne said they could.

A group of four guards stepped into their path. Sansa shut her eyes as fear doused her body in ice. The Gods were not with them today.

“Lady Stark!” A guard recognized her. She bit her tongue as a heartbeat passed and Brienne touched the hilt of her weapon.

“We are escorting Lady Stark to the feast. Please let us by.”

The guards eyed them warily, clearly not buying it and lingering their gazes on Jamie. Sansa watched as they noticed his crippled hand and the obsidian mold. The black, shiny surface absorbed all light from the torch scones on the wall.

“Who’s he?” A guard asked, tilting his head at Jamie, and taking a threatening step forward.

“Just a lost old man, I’m afraid.” Jamie answered, adjusting his scarf over his beard, “This fine lady was just helping me find my way.”

The guards shared apprehensive gazes, “I’m sorry, but we didn’t hear of any changes. Lady Stark – you’ll be coming with me.” The guard reached out to grab Sansa—

He let out a yowl of pain and jerked his hand backwards, his eyes widen and staring at the crossbow bolt that pierced his flesh completely. The bolt stuck out from the middle of his palm. He clutched his wrist, crying out in pain, as the other guards drew their weapons.

Sansa’s gaze flicked down the hall just in time to catch Bronn running away with the crossbow in his hands.

Without ceremony or grace – it became a battle. Sansa threw herself back, plastering her body against the stoned walls, and blocking her head with her arms. She saw Brienne fighting with brutality and fearsomeness. Jamie slammed his shoulder into the armored chest of a guard and yanked the blade from his grasp – awkwardly shifting on his feet as he blocked a blow from someone else.

Sansa swallowed as the fear turned her insides to liquid. She could run. She could make a run for it and try to get to the docks. Jamie and Brienne would have to either find her or let her leave without them. This was her chance – for Winterfell. For _home_.

She caught Brienne’s gaze over the fighting and the tall, broad woman nodded.

Sansa pushed away from the wall, holding her skirts in her hands and _ran_. Her lungs burned with the effort as the sounds of steel clashing against steel started to fade into an echo.

Home.

Home.

 _Home_.

Even if the Bolton’s had taken Winterfell, she would take it _back_. She would find her allies in the North.

Sansa’s boots skidded to a stop, her palms flying upward to slam into a cold golden and crimson breastplate. She did not even have time to look up before something heavy and painful slammed into her temple and the whole world went black.

V.

Shella paced anxiously inside her cell – glowering at her cellmate with every passing turn.

“How fail?!” She spat, “Should have killed the little traitor.”

Brienne shook her head, “Sansa gave you the order not to.”

Shella grumbled and did another lap around the cell.

“Lady wolf,” She stopped, her face mottled purple and red with anger, “I will cut off their cocks if they kill her. I will peel skin from bones!”

Brienne inhaled slowly, her body sore from the fighting, and the shame of failure making her bones ache.

“They won’t kill her.” She said, leveling Shella with a look. “She is valuable _alive_. She’s the last known child of Ned Stark, Warden of the North.”

Shella shook her head.

“Wolves do not make pets.”

VI.

“Your Grace!”

Tyrion looked up from his meal, the venison’s blood dripping from his fork, as a guard came into the hall. His stomach twisted anxiously. There would only be _one_ reason why a household guard was interrupting the celebration feast. Tyrion’s green eyes scanned the room for Bronn and could not find him.

Maybe they were lucky. Maybe Sansa had escaped with Bronn. That was not part of the plan, of course, but he knew how clever Sansa could be. Bronn’s part in their plan had simply been to provide support. If they were cornered – Bronn was instructed to create a distraction and then run, allowing for the guard’s attention to divert to him.

But…

Doubt gnawed at his gut. What if the guards did not give chase?

 _No, no_. Tyrion reminded himself that Bronn was the last-ditch effort. He was Plan C. Sansa would’ve met with Jamie and Brienne by now. She was likely already on a ship heading for Flint’s Finger. Tyrion took a slow sip of spicy Dornish wine and willed himself to remain calm. He was at the head table with his father. He could not let Tywin read his features.

Tyrion constructed his face to a mask of boredom and indifference.

“We found this man—” The guard motioned for his men to step forward and Tyrion grasped the edge of the table.

 _No_.

“We – well, sir—I mean Your Grace, I believe it is Ser Jamie.”

The entire room fell into a hush. All eyes were on the man draped between two soldiers, his golden hair shining in the light.

“Lift your head.” Tywin said, rising from his chair, “Let me see your face.”

Tyrion stole a glance to his father. He could see the apprehension – yes – in the slight downward pull of his lips and the stiffness of his shoulders. But Tyrion could see the hope, too. The way his eyes widened slightly as Jamie lifted his head, his lower lip bleeding from a shallow cut.

Tywin walked around the table and stepped down from the dais. He stared down at Jamie. He stared into the eyes of his son. There was no escaping it. Tywin would know the face of his own child – the beard did not hide Jamie. Not from _him_.

A smile lifted his lips, charming and sardonic, “Hello, father.”

There was a collective gasp and mummering like a thousand bees swarming their nest. Tywin lifted his hand and the room fell silent once more. He dropped his hand onto Jamie’s shoulders and the guards released him –

He turned to the room, hand squeezing Jamie’s shoulder, “Lords and Ladies of the Rock – I give you, my heir. Jamie Lannister.”

Jamie and Tyion met each other’s gaze across table.

“Well, fuck.” Tyrion muttered, rising his goblet.

“Welcome home, Jamie!” He yelled and that inspired others to the same.

VII.

Stannis raised his sword, the battle command shouted against the howling and bitter winds. The dead stared back at his men with blue, unfeeling eyes. The armies collided in a mass of black and silver.

Their hot blood steamed as it splashed into the winter snow. Stannis’ muscles strained as he slashed his sword and removed the upper forearm of a decaying white walker solider. The fingers twitched on the ground and he screamed back at his men, “Fire! Fire!”

There was another surge of soldiers as they ran forward with torches and oil. The thick, black, and cloying substance coated the bodies of the dead and they tossed their torches – the blackened winter illuminated in red, hot flames. 

“Fall back!” Stannis instructed, his sword ripping through a torso. “Regroup!”

It was not their first battle.

And, if Melissandre’s words were true, it would not be their last.

VIII.

Daenerys dug her thighs into the warm, scaled heat of Drogon’s neck. She bowed her head as her dragon swooped into the fields, “Dracarys!”

She felt the scalding sensation along her inner thighs as Drogon filled his belly with fire and it traveled through his throat. The flame burst forth and she looked back as smoke and ruin was left in her wake. She could distantly hear the undulating calls of her riders and the screams of horses and men as they fought and died and burned. The fire spread and grew along the grassy plains and left a blackened scorch in their wake.

She pivoted, letting Drogon make a wide, upward arch. A volley of arrows cut through the clouds and Daenerys ducked her head as she felt them snap and splinter against her dragon’s scales. _Arrows_? They were _harmless_ against her dragon. She nearly wanted to scoff.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her violet eyes narrowing, as she prepared to make another strike against the Florent’s calvary.

“Dracarys!” She cried once more, ducking her head as Drogon flew low and snatched a horse into his sharp, glistening jaw. Daenerys felt her heart twist as she heard the sickening crunch of bone as Drogon bit the horse in half and then released it. The horse fell in two pieces with blood and gore stringing from the insides.

She rode Drogon back to the flank of her army where the majority of Doran’s host remained. Her Dothraki screamers had been the first into the fray. They had scared off the green boys and slaughtered the rest without mercy. Her Unsullied joined and then, the Dornish archers had released their calculated volleys of arrows – some of which were poisoned. Daenerys had entered the battle after with the intent to burn their infantrymen. It was only a matter of time before the army broke and retreated. They were not match for her forces and no match for her dragon. Drogon’s wings blew fierce bellows of warm air as he lowered himself to the ground. Rhaegal and Viserion swirled overhead amidst smoke and cloud. They would remain overhead – intimidation if nothing else.

Daenerys rubbed her hand across Drogon’s jaw as he turned his face toward her. His black and red scales shining in the mild, afternoon sun. She slid from her place upon his back and walked toward the company of her allies.

“This battle will be over before the sun sets, Khaleesi.” Ser Jorah said with a slow nod. She was relieved that he agreed to remain at the flank, where she would reside, as there were few in her company that she could say she explicitly trusted. Jorah being one of them.

Daenerys pursed her lips, watching the battle from the high ground, “Fighting in Mereen was different.” Daenerys could recall the subterfuge, the brawls in the dead of night, and the fear that had gripped the people. Her people. Even her sun and stars – his fights had been _different_. The Dothraki met on open fields with the same weapons. They clashed into one another with skill and strength.

He nodded, “It was.”

“Will they kneel?” She asked, folding her hands in front of her, just barely able to make out the white, blue, and orange banner of house Florent.

“I doubt they wish to have history repeat themselves and meet the same end as House Gardener.” Jorah said, “But, I’m afraid I cannot say for certain.” 

Dany swallowed.

The air thick with smoke and blood.

This was the price of conquest.

This was the legacy of her ancestors.

IX.

It is nightfall when Daenerys Targaryen received their surrender.

Imry Florent, King of the Reach, bent the knee and swore fealty upon a field of ash and bone.

Daenerys looked over the war map. Her fingers slid the carved figure of a dragon onto King’s Landing and met the gazes of her advisors.

X.

Tyrion does not trust the household guard. Not with his secrets, at least. He found that he can trust serving wenches and stable boys a lot easier. They had more to lose and they were more willing to turn a blind eye when you flashed gold in their direction.

There’s a change of guards outside Sansa’s door and Tyrion slipped inside as a serving girl flirted with the guard. As agreed, she’d come back in a few hours, claiming to need help carrying something, and Tyrion would slip back out. No one would be the wiser.

“Sansa.” He breathed her name and she only partly turned her head toward him. She was sitting on the carpet in front of the roaring fireplace with a book open in her lap. He could tell from the pictures that it was the same herbal book that he’d seen her read when she was in hiding.

He wished – oh how he wished – he could give her more.

“I’m sorry.” He lowered his eyes, “I – I’ve been unable to uphold my promise to you.”

He heard the book shut, “Come here, Tyrion.”

There is no denying her. He knows that now. Sansa could crook her finger and he would do a handstand for her. He can feel the weight of his failures pressing on his lungs as he buried his face into the side of her neck as she embraced him. The fire popped and crackled beside them.

“I know you did all that you could.” She whispered with her tone fierce, “And at least if I have to stay here then I am with you.”

“Sansa—” He drew away, searching her porcelain features. “There’s something I need to tell you.” His brow furrowed, “I told you that my father is going to marry you off to Ramsay and you’ll likely be returned to Winterfell but there’s a reason _why_ I needed to get you away from Casterly Rock before he arrived. It wasn’t just my vow to return you home…”

She just nodded, a pinch between her brows.

“I admit that all I have are rumors, but I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you falling into the hands of someone like him.” Tyrion lifted his hands and held her face between them. He thought he might be able to get lost in those eyes of hers. So blue, so beautiful.

“Ramsay makes Joffery look like child.” He said, watching her face as she bit her lip and avoided his eyes, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled. “It’s said that he sends his dogs after people, that he delights in the suffering of others, and that he may have even killed his brother.”

She inhaled again, finally meeting his gaze, “Now I see why you were so adamant about the plan.”

“Brienne made an oath to your mother that she would return you home.” He added, stroking his thumb across her cheek, “I’ve only known her a short while. Jamie’s known her longer. But, she’s true to her word. If I can manage to have Tywin release her…then perhaps we can try again. We can come up with a new, better plan.”

“Tyrion?”

“Yes?”

She chewed her lower lip, “Will you hold me?”

He let her head fall forward into his chest and he cradled her head. They were quiet and somber – each lost in their own thoughts. He could not say how long they remained together, locked in an embrace, as the weight of reality settled over them. Sansa lifted her head from his chest and kissed him, soft and sweet, and Tyrion had to stop himself from groaning into her mouth. He felt her fingers toying at the clasps of his doublet and he caught them –

“What are you--?”

“You care for me.” Sansa blurted, her cheeks turning an appealing color of pink, “I feel it and I _know_ it. And I care for you. Deeply.” The firelight illuminated her auburn hair and softened the angles of her lovely face. Tyrion’s heart swelled at her words and he twined their fingers together – holding her hands to his chest as she continued to speak with such raw honesty.

“We may not get another chance so I want to ask you – Tyrion – will you please take me to bed?”

His jaw dropped, “W-what?” A hot flush crept up his neck, “Sansa, I – are you sure?”

She nodded slowly, looking at him through hooded eyes, “If what you say about Ramsay is true, and I do not escape before my marriage to him, then I want to have this. With _you_. I don’t want to share that with him.” She shuddered and Tyrion could not help but wonder if his dear Sansa had felt this way before, when she worried that his awful nephew would deflower her. “Please, Tyrion? I – there’s no one else—"

Tyrion silenced her words with a firm kiss.

XI.

Sansa pulled at the strings of her simple blue and silver gown. It fell from her shoulders and she stood to peel the garment away. Her legs trembled as she laid on her back, the fire heating on side of her naked body as Tyrion bowed over her – his lips on her collarbone, her neck, and then finally to the soft swell of her breasts. She sighed as he mouthed over one of her nipples, the rosy pink bud hardening under his tongue and sending shocks of sweet, tingling pleasure to her core. She could feel the dampness of her smallclothes as she pressed her thighs together.

Tyrion peppered soft, feather-light kisses down her stomach, “Did you enjoy what I did last time?”

“Yes.” She said, her voice a touch breathless. Anticipation coiled in her gut as she felt Tyrion settle between her legs to kiss her _there_. His blunt fingertip caressed along her wet slit and she inhaled sharply as she felt his finger slide into her. Her hands wound their way into his mop of hair _– it’s getting long_ , she mussed, as she clutched the back of his neck. Tyrion’s tongue worked over her, tight circles, and soft sucks to her most sensitive nub, in a way that had her back arching off the carpet. She whined quietly as his finger pumped in and out and her walls clenched. She wanted _more_. Wanted _him_.

Distantly, she recalled a conversation with Margaery. About men and what people do in the bedchambers. She recalled how she told Sansa that women needed to be comfortable and relaxed and _ready_. Sansa wondered if this was what she meant. She surely felt ready. She tugged on Tyrion’s hair.

“Be patient.” He rasped against her skin, his nose burying into her damp curls, “Let me make you feel good first.”

She wanted to argue that it _did_ feel good. But his tongue slicked a long stripe along her wet folds and Sansa hitched her breath and her words into her throat. Her hips canted, rocking in time with the thrusting of his fingers and she felt that tight, heated coiling in her lower stomach build and build until she was panting, and her heart was pounding in her chest.

“It’s okay…” Tyrion muttered, moaning quietly, “Let go.”

Sansa doesn’t totally understand what he means. Not really. She focused instead on keeping time with his ministrations, swirling, and rocking her hips in whatever way makes that spark appear. There’s a tingling sensation at the base of her spine and she squirmed, a sputtered gasp leaving her lips as her thighs lock together – her body trembling as _something_ – she doesn’t know what it’s called – causes her body to quake and fill with liquid heat.

Half-thinking, Sansa shoved her fist into her mouth to muffle the moan that tried to escape. The last thing she needs or wants is a guard to hear them and come barging into the room. Tywin would have her head. Or Tyrion’s. The thought is sobering.

“Are you ready?” She feels the press of him against her folds and Sansa glanced down – she doesn’t want her memory of this to be staring at the shadows on the ceiling.

“Yes.”

She hopes she’s right.

XII.

Tyrion knows he’s going to the deepest, darkest layer of the Seven Hells. But Sansa asked him to be her first. That must count for something. His cock is painfully hard and throbbing as he held himself by the base and positioned himself at Sansa’s center. Her pale, freckled skin is flushed by her orgasm and he wants to commit this to memory. Her red hair, washed with the glow of firelight, her nipples puckered and wet from his salvia, her lips parted and her blue eyes glassy with satisfaction.

If he doesn’t succeed in getting her away from Ramsay, this very well could be their last time together. Tyrion ground his jaw. _No_. He mustn’t think like that. He will get her away from him. He will.

He bit his lip as he began to push himself forward into her tight heat. She’s a highborn, so he expects it’s likely she doesn’t have her maidenhead due to horse riding, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t agonizingly tight around him. She whimpered and he froze – “Are you alright? We can stop.”

“Keep going.” Her hand reached down and found his, interlacing their fingers in a tight grasp, “Just…feels very full.”

A lick of pride coasts up his spine. He rocked his hips forward again after waiting another few moment for Sansa to adjust. It’s _slow_. He can’t help but savor each inch as he sinks deeper into her, her walls clenching around him with every shift. Finally, once buried to the hilt, Tyrion lifts their joined hands to his mouth and kisses the tip of her fingers.

“Sansa?” He whispered, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”

“Mhm.”

He drew his hips back, slowly, not letting the head of his cock slip out. Then, thrusted forward with careful, deliberate motion. She arched her back, exposing the long, pale column of her throat, and whimpered once more. Tyrion repeated the motion. Once, twice, three times and he can feel that his cock is drenched in her slick. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back – unable to let her go. Unwilling to.

Another slow shift of his hips, another deliberate and deep thrust, and he can feel Sansa’s walls pulsing around his cock. He worked his free hand between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit and pressing circles into it. Sansa gasped at the new sensation, the new feeling, and she glanced down at him with wonder in his eyes.

“You can ah – finish - like this, too.” He explained, a soft grunt escaping him.

“I can?”

“Yes.” He assured her with another teasing stroke.

Sansa moved her hips and Tyrion’s eyes nearly rolled in the back of his head. _Oh_ , she was a quick learner. They moved together, slowly rocking back and forth, Tyrion rubbing her clit with each thrust until he could feel her thighs starting to shake.

“Stay quiet.” He reminded her, pumping into her with a little more speed, and Sansa’s nails clung into the carpet. The fireplace crackled and sent a flurry of sparks up into the chimney. He watched in fascination as her stomach muscles contracted, as he felt the power squeeze of her inner walls, and her breathy, wanton gasps leaving her pink lips – wet from her biting them. He loved the way she arched her back as she came. How her eyelashes fluttered, and her hair fanned out in a messy, ruddy halo around her perfect, flushed face.

Tyrion could not hold back any longer as she squeezed around him. His thrusts became short and swift as he felt his muscles tighten. He meant to pull away – to pull _out_ – but Sansa’s legs wrapped around his waist and he was pinned there as his cock swelled and released into her. Her sweet, pulsing cunt milked him, walls clasping in an attempt to pull him deeper, and he buried his face into her chest with a breathless moan.

He felt her arms loop around him. Her fingertips ghosting across his sweat-slick skin.

Selfishly, he wished this was _their_ wedding night. That he would not need to remind her to get Moon tea. That he could wake up in the morning with her in his bed and show her all the wicked ways that she might find this pleasure. Tyrion kept his eyes closed and for a few seconds indulged in the fantasy.

The dream that could never be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I made it clear-ish about what everyone’s roles were LOL. Bronn did not abandon Sansa (tho it might’ve looked that way). He was the one most closely tied to Tyrion, so they wanted to keep his involvement sparse. Whereas Jamie was “disguised” (not very well LOL), no one knows Brienne, and Shella’s been kept hidden/associated with Sansa. 
> 
> As well – since Stannis is technically King of the Seven Kingdoms. He would’ve kicked Jamie off the Kingsugard, even if they weren’t sure if he was alive or dead. Tywin just made himself King of the Rock anyway so if he wants Jamie as his heir then that’s what he can do. NO RULES, MY GUY.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, kudos-ing. I finally have a layout for how I want these chapters to go so hopefully that’ll help with writing! That being said – I am only human and I might forget stuff but let’s hope I don’t. I finished this chapter at 2am so...sorry if there are some glaring mistakes. It's a 6K chapter so YEET
> 
> Secondly, if you wanna see my inspiration for [Twyins Crown](https://www.etsy.com/listing/700462437/lion-heart-king-crown-gold-male-full?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=lion+tudor+crown&ref=sr_gallery-1-1&organic_search_click=1&pro=1&frs=1&col=1)


	16. Chapter 16

**Part II**

No longer a maiden, not a Queen, a woman must define her place -  
and although they jest, and scheme, and plot   
The Gods will determine their fate

* * *

Dany looked up on the Red Keep and could feel the echoes of her ancestors. She tried to seek out something - a memory of this place – but found none. This was the place where Robert, the Usurper, had lived for years after killing her brother. But his reign ended with an unlucky stroke of fate. There was a pyre set up, no doubt for the sacrifices made by the Red Priests of Stannis’ rule.

Dany swallowed thickly – remembering the smell of burning bodies on the battlefield.

Her dragon, Drogon, pressed his warm, scaled face into her palm. A small comfort. The city did not burn nor did it fall to her Unsullied and Dothraki screamers. Word travels quickly in Westeros and even faster when her spymaster – Varys the Spider – has his little birds in each corner. The people had heard about Imry Florent bending the knee. The Reach belonged to the Dragon Queen. They gave her gold, and men, and horses, and her army marched through the Reach and through the Crownlands. 

When they had reached the gates - the gates had opened to them.

The smallfolk may have been wary to accept a Targaryen once more, but it was easier to yield than to face the wrath of her army. And besides, Dany had no wish or desire to punish the innocent. The farmers, the merchants, the men and women and children of King’s Landing – they were her subjects, they were not her enemies. Varys had done his part to place whispers in the right ears.

_What sort of King abandons his people? What sort of King burns them? Stannis is simply the Mad King incarnate – only zealous instead of truly mad. He’s worshipping a false God. He’s turned his back on the Seven. Pledge your honor, your life, to the Queen of Westeros, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons –_

It was those whispers, along with the stories of Dany’s conquests and mercies, that caused the city of King’s Landing to fall without blood being spilled. Any loyalist that Stannis had, they were with him in the North.

And it was Ser Jorah who reminded her – the smallfolk care about their crops, about surviving the winter, and they do not _truly_ care who sits upon the throne as long as that person offers them protection. So, when Dany had made the journey through the Reach and to the Crownlands, she had taken the time to stop at small holdfasts. She listened to lesser lords and their grieving, their anger, and their concerns.

Perhaps, with enough time, trust could be rebuilt. They could learn to see the Targaryen name and feel safe, rather than afraid.

Her footsteps echoed as she walked forward to the Iron Throne. Her heart lodged inside her throat. This was _hers_. This Throne. She stopped in front of the dais with Missandre beside her and the silent shadow of Gray Worm at her back.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?” Missandre asked in High Valyrian.

“Yes.” She answered with a small nod, not yet ready to take the steps and sit upon the throne, “Gather the war council.”

“As you wish.” Her friend bowed her head.

II

“We should head to the Westerlands.” Varys said, sitting at the table he was so familiar with. “Tywin Lannister has named himself King of the Rock. We can wait to fight Stannis when he returns from the North.”

“I disagree.” Grey Worm said, his jaw clenched, “We have come for the Iron Throne. We have it. If this King wishes to fight, then let him fatigue his men and come to us. We have had a long journey.”

Dany nodded. She understood that the men and woman of her company needed time to recover.

“The Riverlands are still held by the Freys, who are loyal to Tywin, but their loyalty is…” Jorah looked at Dany, “Forgive me, Khaleesi, but they have no honor or loyalty. Walder Frey is not known to keep his word. We saw that when they murdered Robb Stark and violated the laws of hospitality.”

“A tragedy.” Varys tittered.

“I say we march West.” Doran spoke, with Oberyn at his side, his voice as cool as a summer’s breeze, “The Lannisters left unchecked will seek to continue their conquest and may try to attack the Reach.”

“And the Mountain still lives.” Oberyn reminded the room with a furrow to his brow. Daenerys had promised the Martell family that they would have justice for Elia and her babes. Yet, she did not want to rush to Tywin to fulfill this vendetta.

“I am in agreement with Grey Worm.” Ser Barristan said, his white armor shining in the candlelight, “We have journeyed long, and I believe that many will bend the knee. I have always known Tywin Lannister to be ambitious, but he is not _stupid_. I do not think he would wish to go to war with our armies.”

“There is also the matter of the Bolton’s to consider.” Varys said, “There is a rumor that Ramsay Bolton is to wed Sansa Stark. She resides in Tywin’s care.”

“I thought the girl died when Stannis took the castle.” Doran said, “The only one who lives is Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“Yes,” Varys nodded, “We all believed that to be true. But my little birds have seen her with their own eyes. Red haired and beautiful and brought to Casterly Rock by none other than Tyrion Lannister, the Imp.”

The war council continued to debate where Daenerys should march. Most were of mind that Tywin was the biggest threat. The Riverlands would seek to put their lot to whoever would win, and Varys believed that the Freys could be convinced to join them. The Vale, as well, may be considered to join them without bloodshed. The boy ruling over it was sickly and ill-prepped for battle.

If their fortune was good, that was two territories that would join them without war. The Stormlands were currently held by a family named ‘Seaworth’, whose loyalty to Stannis was absolute. The council agreed that the Stormlands would need to be taken by force.

“Why has Stannis Baratheon gone North?” Missandre poised the question to the room and all eyes turned to Varys once more.

“They say it was because the Lord Commander requested his aid.” He shook his head, “It was a waste of time and men. Wildings have no more than sticks and stones for weapons. It’s nothing the Night’s Watch couldn’t handle.”

Dany looked around the room at her commanders and advisors. She could feel wariness settle in her own bones. They had traveled for months, by sea and land, and she was finally in the Red Keep sitting at the table where her forefathers had once sat.

“We do not need to come to a decision tonight, my lords.” Dany said, rising from her chair. Her eyes burning from looking over maps and letters. “I will sleep on it and give my army time to rest. Once we make our decision and before we march, we will give our enemies a chance to consider surrender. As Barristan said, Lord Tywin is not foolish, but I cannot forgive him for the betrayal upon my family.”

In the hours that followed, Daenerys bathed and donned a fine dress of red and black. She snacked on fat, ripe grapes and hard, cold cheeses.

And in the quiet night, she stepped into the throne room once more, but she still did not sit upon the Iron Throne. The swords gleamed in the torchlight.

III

That night she dreamed of snow, of a lover who she did not recall the face of – only that he was dark haired and homely, and she saw the Wall. Impressive and glistening in the sunlight. She saw a crack form, and then another, and then another, and the snow began to collect around her ankles.

She could not move. She could not speak. The snow built and built until it trapped her calves and then her knees. The cold seeped into her very bones.

She opened her mouth to scream – to call out for her dragons, for Jorah, for the lover’s name who she did not know.

 _Save us._ The white branches of the Godswood trees rattled in the wind. _Please. Save us. Mother of Fire._

Daenerys sat up straight, her heart hammering, and body covered in sweat.

IV

In another bedroll, thousands of leagues away – a man has a similar dream.

At first, it is the nightmare of Ygritte, dying in his arms but then her hair fades to gray. Jon blinked, confused, as he realized that her hair is not gray but _silver_. Her lips which once leaked blood are now smiling. She cradled his face inside her hands and kissed him. Her mouth is warm, and her tongue feels like embers on his.

And then he is standing in front of the Wall. It’s weeping. Jon lifted his arm, his sword flashing as he brought it down and cleaved the body of a White Walker in half. The wind burned his ears and inside the wind he can hear a voice –

_Save us. Please. Save us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter, folks! This was very much a...filler?? If you could call it that! I wanted to capture the time that had passed between Tyrion/Sansa getting together & Dany reaching King's Landing and trying to decide where she would take herself. 
> 
> Also, I hope I did OK with the characterization of Dany + Her allies. This is such a different timeline. (Especially from the show >:( ) and I truly believe that Dany WOULD be a good queen. She just has a lot to learn, too. 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying the story and if you are - please feel free to leave me a comment! Or kudos :) 
> 
> Next chapter we will return to Sansa!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This chapter does contain Ramsay being creepy with Sansa. However, it does not venture into assault. He just makes lewd/suggestive comments. If this is something you’d like to avoid – please stop reading at the ‘V’ section. I want to make it clear that Sansa DOES have control, as she’s playing a specific angle & Sansa is NOT 14 like she is in the books, but I wanted to make a warning just to be safe!

I

Sana watched from her window as the banner of House Bolton flapped in the wind as the retinue arrived. She walked to the small table where she was required to take her meals and picked up a slice of black bread with a heaping of butter smeared on it. Tywin kept her confined to her rooms with a guard. Not that she expected anything else. He could not let his prized bride run off again. She munched as she stared at her wardrobe.

Today, she would meet her husband-to-be. Ramsay Bolton.

 _Very well_. She thought as she finished her bread and wiped the crumbs from her lips. _He wishes to see a blushing bride. Then that is what they will see._

As if on cue, her handmaiden arrived – it was a different girl each day. Sansa had no doubt that Tywin did this intentionally to ensure that she did not become close to any of them.

“My lady.” The girl bowed, “I am glad to see you finished your breakfast. May we begin?”

Sansa nodded and took a seat in front of her mirror. “I’d like to wear the pink dress today. And I’d like to try something new with my hair.”

The girl nodded her head once more, “Of course, my lady.”

The dress she chose was light pink that reached the floor with long sleeves and embroidered flowers. It was a meshed fabric, that gave a translucency to the skirts, with little pearls and beads hidden along the multiple flowers and leaves. Sansa inhaled as the waist was cinched, pushing her breasts up, accentuating her curves – yet the embroidery at the chest crawled up towards her neck and purposely hid her cleavage from view.

She wished to appear delicate and feminine. The pink color was a call to her girlhood, but also in honor of the Bolton banner which was pale pink with red.

Her handmaiden fashioned her hair as Sansa wished. A large portion of her auburn hair was loose, falling down to her back, but the rest had been braided and coiled into a bun behind her head. Her handmaiden dusted her cheeks with a rosy powder to accentuate the flush of face and spritzed floral-smelling perfume along her chest and arms.

Sansa looked at her reflection. At the girl with rosy cheeks and she smiled. She looked the perfect picture of a starry-eyed, flushed girl with dreams and songs inside her head.

Ramsay Bolton would have no idea how dangerous she could be.

Sansa let the guard escort her with her head held high.

II

Tywin Lannister did not have a throne. Perhaps he was having one built. Perhaps he wished to meet all his guests standing. Even so, he gathered his court into the main hall. Lannister guards were posted along the balconies, around Tywin, and at the doorways. The room was larger than the throne room in the Red Keep, but it felt smaller with the way the bodies were packed within.

Sansa stood to the left of Tywin Lannister with the other ladies of the court as Ramsay and Roose Bolton entered. She saw Genna whose ruby-painted lips pressed firmly together as she watched the company of Northern men file in. Genna’s hair was piled high above her head, the golden curls mistaken for a crown in their own right, her plump body filling out an emerald colored dress, with lion heads embroidered on the skirts, and a long golden chain necklace that reached her navel. She did not look pleased to see the Boltons. And Sansa was left wondering if Genna knew of her betrothal to Ramsay, if she knew about Tywin refusing Joy’s wish to marry Harrold, or if she even agreed with her brother declaring himself King of the Rock. At the thought of Joy, her eyes scanned the crowd once more, and found the young girl on the sidelines of the room. Her head was bowed, her hair tied back away from her face, her dress beige colored and plain. A memory tugged at her. One where Joy laughed and gave her old dresses to Sasna, declaring that she’d have so _many_ once she was wed.

Tyrion and Jamie stood to their father’s right. Jamie looked every bit the golden child. His beard was shaven close to his strong jaw, his hair – still long, reaching his chin – was brushed and slicked behind his head. Sansa had to crane her neck slightly to see Tyrion and her heart swelled with relief when she confirmed that he looked _alright_. She had not seen him since their night together and she could quietly admit to herself that she missed him, not just his embrace, but his wit and their conversations.

Sansa watched as Roose and Ramsay knelt in front of Tywin. They were all dressed in familiar Northern furs and dark tunics, trousers, and boots. A small pang of longing ran out inside her chest as she sought a familiar face among the men.

There were none.

All her father’s men must’ve died with him or died fighting the Greyjoys.

Sansa’s blue eyes met Ramsay’s and his were as cold as ice. She held his gaze for half-a-moment and then looked away, biting her lip, looking at her slippers hidden beneath her gown. She thought of Tyrion’s touch and it helped to inspire a flush to her cheeks. She peeked up from her lashes to see that Ramsay Bolton was now smiling at her. Not a full smile. No. His lips just lifted, and a dimple appeared at his cheeks.

Cersei Lannister once told her that a woman’s tears were a weapon. Sansa was beginning to believe that her smiles were a weapon too.

“We know you have journeyed long…” Tywin said, his voice booming as he lifted his hand for the Boltons’ to rise. “We have prepared rooms for you and a feast this evening in honor of our alliance.” Tywin turned his head toward her, “And…” His palm opened and Sansa knew when she was being summoned. She stepped forward and felt the entire courts eyes on her. The pearls and beads of her dress winked in the sunlight that streamed through the magnificent stained-glass windows.

“I present Lady Sansa Stark.” Tywin said, his face unsmiling, “She is eager to return to her home.”

She curtsied in front of the men.

“I hope you had a safe journey, my lords.” Sansa said, her voice saccharine sweet. All her teachings from King’s Landing returning to her. She felt as if she were in front of Joffery and Cersei once more, but _this_ time – Sansa knew the game they played.

“Lady Stark.” Roose Bolton watched her. Sansa could feel the twist of his betrayal. He was her father’s man, and Robb’s, and now he was Tywin’s. All for power. “You are as fair as your mother.”

Sansa bowed her head, “Thank you, my lord.”

Tywin gestured for her to return once more to standing with the rest of the ladies and Sansa obeyed with another slight, bashful smile at Ramsay. His eyes followed her as she stepped away. She did not dare let her gaze lift from the marbled floor.

III

By the time the feast rolled around, Tyrion’s legs were stiff and cramped from walking the halls with their guests. After speaking at length with Roose, Tyrion surmised that the man was, above all else, a pragmatic opportunist. He was similar to Tywin. No decision made without weighing the risks and rewards. Which meant that when it came to getting Sansa away from Ramsay and this unfortunate union – Tyrion would need to be smart. Brienne and Shella were still locked in the dungeons, Jamie went no where without their household guard, and his only ally – Bronn – might not be able to rescue Sansa on his own.

Jamie cast him a mournful look as he sat down beside him. 

“You look about ready to carve your eyes out, dear brother.” Tyrion quipped as he poured himself a healthy cup of fine Arbor wine. His father spared no expense to welcome his Northern vassals.

“I had the immense pleasure of listening to our father inform me of my marriage prospects.” Jamie said, his twisted to a grimace. “So far, I could be the husband of a Frey girl – as we saw how well _that_ turned out for the Tully’s – a cousin of from the Paynes, a granddaughter from House Royce, Wylla of House Manderly and he even considered Jeyne Westerling. It seems even being a cripple has not deterred the highborn lords to offer up their daughters, cousins, and sisters.”

Tyrion shook his head, taking a large sip of wine, “You’re the heir to a Kingdom now. He wants whatever will give us the best alliance and discourage rebellions.”

Jamie made a noise in his throat and shook his head. An unspoken truth settled between them. Jamie loved Cersei. He did not die with her – though Tyrion believed he would have if he could. There was no other woman who would match their dear, sweet, and cruel sister. Tywin might succeed in finding a match for Jamie, but there would be love between them. _If Jamie does wed, I wonder what schemes father will employ to ensure his wife has a child?_ After all, Jamie’s bastard children were all dead. Their ashes strewn across King’s Landing.

The servers began to bring out the feast – a salad made of spinach, sweet grass, plums, candied nuts, and violets. A creamy, chestnut soup with smoked duck and lentils. It was rich and hearty, warming him from the inside. Large, steaming racks of venison cooked so tender and fine and rubbed with herbs, and it melted on his tongue. And then, there were plenty of biscuits and rolls, warm from the ovens and smeared with rich butter. Tyrion watched as men ate and drank and jested as the evening began to dip further into darkness.

“Sansa looks quite fine this evening.” Jamie said, his mouth poised over a forkful of roasted potatoes.

Tyrion’s eyes tracked the room until he found her – and she was _splendid_. Her dress was champagne colored, with gold leaves decorating the short sleeves, shoulders, and her chest. Her lovely hair, which he _knew_ to be soft, was braided and coiled into an up-do that revealed the slender pale length of her neck. She wore no jewelry, but she simply did not need it. Sansa herself was radiant. He wished to talk to her. To walk openly to her side and take her hand into his.

He watched as she sat beside Ramsay Bolton – her betrothed – and placed her hand on the cuff of his sleeve as she laughed at something he said. Tyrion cut harshly into the venison and it caused his knife to scrape loudly along the plate.

“Have you come up with any sort of plan?” Jamie asked, lowering his head, and speaking quietly.

“No.” Tyrion scowled. He couldn’t taste the food any longer.

Jamie looked back over to Sansa and sighed, “At this rate, we ought to let her go North.”

“Not with him.” Tyrion said, “Need I remind you what happened to Lady Hornwood?”

Ramsay had forced marriage upon the widow, raped her, and then left her in a tower to starve. Tyrion would die before he let a similar fate fall upon Sansa Stark.

Jamie made a noise of disgust, “Must you bring that up while we’re eating?”

Tyrion let his gaze track back to Sansa.

“I am reminding you of who we are up against, brother. That is all.”

V

Ramsay reminded Sansa of Joffery, only opposite. Dark hair, pale cold eyes, and fair skin. Ramsay ordered servants around with a sharp smile and a snap of his fingers. He especially seemed to enjoy making his servant, Reek, hurry back and forth with fresh wine. Sansa pitied the man. His hair was straggly and shock white, his face sallow, and she never saw him smile or speak. He only nodded and kept his eyes on the stone floor. With Joffery, she knew that she could manipulate the situation and sometimes find mercy for fools and drunks. But, not Ramsay. She did not know him well enough yet to discover what his weakness were – if he had any. Joffery’s weakness had been his pride. His desire to be seen as powerful and intelligent.

“I admit,” Ramsay said as Reek poured him a fresh goblet of wine, “I am eager to us to be married, Lady Stark.”

Sansa nodded and pulled her lips int a soft, shy smile.

“You’ve never been with a man, have you?” He asked, keeping his voice quiet. If anyone overheard him – they did not mention it or even glance in her direction. Sansa knew the question was inappropriate. It was not something a highborn man would ask a highborn lady. It was crass.

She bit her lip, thinking of Tyrion, and using the memory to help coax her cheeks into a flushed pink color. Ramsay’s eyes widened and as did his smile.

“No, of course not.” She felt the weight of his palm on her knee, “You’re a proper lady, aren’t you? Devout? Did you follow the Seven or the Old Gods?”

Sansa pretended to nervously sip her wine.

“The Seven, my lord.”

She felt his hand squeeze and she resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. His eyes were hungry.

“I’ve heard it can be quite painful the first time.”

Her heart slammed inside her chest. _He’s wrong._ She recalled the night with Tyrion once again. _Tyrion was gentle. It felt different…a stretch of my body to his…but it did not hurt. And Ramsay…_ She watched his face; _he looks glad that it might hurt._

“But, not to worry, my lady.” He said, removing his hand from her knee, “I will ensure our wedding night is one to remember. We have been preparing Winterfell for your arrival.” He flagged down another serving boy for more another plate of food.

“You are very gracious, my lord.” Sansa replied as she turned away so she could focus on her dinner. She felt Ramsay’s hand return to her knee again and she swallowed down the cut of meat in her mouth. It felt like a rock when it landed in her stomach.

“I can be.” He said, “To those who are good to me. Loyalty is _always_ rewarded.” His cold eyes snapped over to Reek, who was standing away from the table with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed. “Reek!”

The man’s head jerked up and he limped back to the table.

“Yes, my lord?” Reek muttered. Sansa noticed that some of his teeth were missing. His eyes glanced at Ramsay and then returned to the floor.

“Go to my chambers and fetch the gift I brought for my bride.” Ramsay ordered. Reek nodded mutely and left them, Sansa’s eyes watching his back. Something about the man felt familiar but she could not place it. Again, she felt the ache of sympathy for the man. If she did wind up in Winterfell with Ramsay…then maybe she could do something to help him.

“You brought a gift all this way?” Sansa asked sweetly

Ramsay smiled, “I did.” His hand lifted from her knee and he began cutting up his venison, “I said to myself – how could I come to Casterly Rock empty handed when I was to be meeting the jewel of the North?” He looked around the table as he spoke, and Sansa watched as his men nodded and raised their glasses in agreement.

Reek soon returned with a dark cherrywood box and handed it to Ramsay. He opened it and inside, Sansa saw, was a silver chain. It was delicate and looked as if it was meant to be looped around someone’s neck twice. Attached to the chain was a red colored gem, fitted into a silver casing, in the shape of a teardrop. _Or a blood drop._ Sansa thought, remembering House Bolton’s banners.

“It is lovely, my lord.” Sansa reached out and let her fingertips touch the gem.

Ramsay licked his lips, watching her, “I would be honored if you would wear this on our wedding day, my lady.”

Sansa looked up – confused. Why would he bring this all the way to Casterly Rock if he wished for her to wear it when they were married? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep it at Winterfell and give it to her then?

“ _Oh_.” He closed the lid, “We are to be wed _here_ , my lady. Then we will journey to Winterfell as man and wife.”

A cold feeling of dread coiled inside her stomach. Sansa forced a smile onto her face.

VI

Jamie _hated_ all of it. The feasting, the entertainment, the meetings, and discussions about how the Lannisters would expand their reach after their alliance to the North was solidified with the marriage of Sansa and Ramsay.

In his spare time, whatever he could manage – he spent it learning how to wield his sword properly. His father didn’t want anyone to see him at a weakened state, so Jamie sequestered himself to practicing with Bronn down by a tucked away cove on the coast.

He parried, swords clanging in the sunlight – “What’s your brother gonna do about Lady Stark?” Bronn asked, feet dancing backward as he adjusted the grip on his blade.

It had been four days since the Bolton’s arrival. Sansa Stark was to be wed in three days. The Sept had been prepared and more guests were arriving from the North and the Riverlands. Jamie assumed that his father was more interested in showing his supporters a lavish, powerful alliance rather than celebrating the union of two houses. 

“I’m afraid he still doesn’t have a plan.” Jamie said, grunting as Bronn swiftly disarmed him and his sword fell to the soft sand. “He’s informed me that he cannot enter her rooms, that the ladies in waiting rotate and are instructed not to speak to Sansa beyond assisting her in meals or dress, and there’s two guards posted night and day outside her door.”

“What about the cunt she’s supposed to marry?”

Jamie sighed, getting his footing steady before striking, “They sit together at every meal. Tyrion always scowls as if he’s ready to gouge the other man’s eyes out.”

“Is _he_ allowed to go near her rooms?” He knew Bronn was trying to find an angle in which they could rescue Sansa, but truly, it was hopeless.

Jamie shook his head, "No one is allowed to her rooms beyond the ladies who attend to her."

“We could always wait till they’re on the road.” Bronn suggested. Another strike, another parry, another hard strike, and Jamie’s sword knocked from his grasp again.

“Once they’re married, Ramsay will _have_ Sansa. She’ll be his in the eyes of men and Gods. Nothing Tyrion could do or say would change that fact. If she was kidnapped, then the Boltons could raise their banners. We'd have another war to deal with.”

Bronn sucked his teeth, tilting his head as he thought about it, “We could just--" Bronn made a slashing motion across his throat, "Ramsay.”

Jamie gave him a look, “No.”

Bronn just shrugged, “Just seems like the easiest option is all I’m saying.”

He didn’t bother telling Bronn that Ramsay always had a personal guard with him. That he was understandably paranoid and always had his food and drink tasted by his servant, Reek, first before eating. That even without Ramsay’s own guard of his own men – Tywin’s household had increased their patrols and security after the arrival of the Boltons. That even the dungeons were closely watched.

He and Tyrion had spent evenings together with his little brother agonizing on how he would get Sansa away from this danger.

And Casterly Rock felt like a powder keg waiting to explode.

VII

Sansa stared at the wedding dress inside her room as she sat at the end of her bed with her embroidery in her hands. The past six days were a blur. She spent her morning meals and evening meals with Ramsay. Learning about him. Understanding him. She saw the cruelty lurking beneath the surface whenever someone made a mistake. One night, Reek had dropped a pitcher of wine and Ramsay’s collar had gone flushed red with anger. Ramsay suddenly laughed – then pointed at the spilled wine and said, ‘ _If you’re going to act like a dog, then you’ll be treated like one. Clean it up,’_ Reek had stared, helpless, at Ramsay, and then the cruel lord added, ‘ _What? Do you think I’ll waste one of our hosts fine linens? No! Clean it, Reek.’_

Sansa watched in horror and pity as Reek had knelt down onto the stone and licked the wine up from the floor. Men jeered and laughed. Ramsay most of all.

Tomorrow, she would be wed to him.

She recalled the words he said to her at dinner, right before Tywin’s household guard escorted her to her room, _‘I will come see you tonight, my bride’_

Her eyes drifted to the small table of cosmetics. The oils and perfumes, her hairbrush, and the necklace Ramsay had given her. The one she would wear tomorrow. Sansa stood and set her embroidery aside, her eyes returning to the dress. It was off the shoulder, the bodice red – like _blood_ – and then it faded as the color journeyed down into the ombre of light red and white at the bottom. She could see at the waist there were tiny red gemstones embroidered into the fabric.

She was not in Lannister colors. She was not in Stark colors. They were going to send her out dressed like a Bolton. A _gift_. Not for the first time that evening – Sansa wished she had something sharp that she could tear into the dress, destroy it, but she knew that was stupid and foolish. Tywin would throw her in another dress. Or perhaps he’d make her suffer and endure the ceremony in her shift or naked.

She did not think Tywin Lannister was as cruel as his grandson, Joffery, but she couldn’t be sure. They had not spoken or interacted since the Bolton’s arrival.

Sansa touched the top of the dress, running her fingers across the gauzy fabric and sighed. Once, she was a pretty girl with songs inside her head who dreamed of weddings and romance. Now, all she wanted was to go home, to see Tyrion once more, to see Jon – her only family left. Her heart hurt. Yet, she could not cry. She would not.

She would find a way to survive this. She had to.

_Scccuurrrpp—_

Sansa spun on her heel, gasping, her hands jumping to her throat as her window opened.

A dark, lithe form slipped through the wedge and landed gracefully on two, worn booted feet. Sansa’s heart trapped itself inside her throat as adrenaline pumped through her veins. The person straightened and stood to their full height, short brown hair, brown eyes, light freckles dusting their nose and Sansa caught the sob inside the back of her throat.

“ _Arya_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not very good at describing clothes (Sorry!) Here's some photo references of the dresses that Sansa wore or was going to wear:  
> [meeting the Boltons](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/569705421617463406/)
> 
> [the first dinner](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/569705421617463490/)
> 
> [the wedding dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/489414684506970409/)
> 
> Secondly, I KNOW - I'm sorry! Cliffhanger! There was going to be more, but I felt like the pacing would be weird. <3 I love you all, thank you SO SO SO MUCH for all your kudos and comments. <3 (Sansa does know that the Boltons were involved in the Red Wedding. She’s just playing the game of thrones ;] )


End file.
